There are many mistakes made in this man’s life,
Many of which, he believes, aren’t worth addressing
There’s too much to do:
the chores, he asserts, especially the lawn
must always be kept clean.
Over a summer’s time,
I learned how to mow the lawn
from a man hiding secrets,
watched as he neatly made his rows straight
with clean edges that covered his tracks,
Going back over every week to keep the grass from getting any bigger.
from the outside, a demure house, silent
never speaking of a single wrong
Even when this man may see a small wildflower growing,
in his heart, wanting to offer it more time,
wanting to let it become of something,
knowing if one thing should be let go
Then the lawn would become a wild forest.
And so another straight row is formed
Chores don’t just keep things tidy,
They keep estranged secrets well-groomed.
Such men like him will watch the grass grow everyday
Confiding all their thoughts in their long lawns,
Far from visible from the road, from the passing traffic.
Pulling their pride in all their labors, though slowly
fermenting into a demented loneliness
One that demands no one ever walk
on the grass, those parts of themselves
are still too sore too speak of.