Pushmower

Yard care was his domain, more meditation
than bother. Sweaty, in a rag of a t-shirt,
he’d mow while I watched from the kitchen,
or stepped out onto the deck to flirt
and give him a glass of ice water.

I see now why he enjoyed the chore,
triceps burning as I carve lines
and patterns in the overgrown grass,
rampant with dandelions, swampy
where it slopes behind the old swingset,
the blades drowning out the dusky hours
between thoughts and their thinker.

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