The man with opposable pinkies
mows the lawn.
He wonders at the invisible roundness
of the earth.
He mows the grass from east to west to east
plodding back and forth in time.
He wants to drink solid water
- no not solid, but pure.
The mower hums
a symphony of destruction
tearing up maple seedlings
spewing grass clippings and dust.
A gritty film sticks to the back of his neck.
There are days for mowing, he thinks
and days for rest.
The lemurs in Madagascar
howl for his return.
Gasoline and grass are silent.
Poppy Milliken
