Into August’s sweat,
I shoved the lawnmower,
fed it gasoline
and bluegrass thick with rain.
My small hands stung
with each lightning stroke
of the piston rod.
I hated how fast
the grass grew back,
asked my Dad to lower the blade.
Miss Hickey said
Wentworth Avenue was prairie once,
bison lived the next town over.
I said I missed those days.
They would have eaten
grass that didn’t die,
grew over graves,
only gave way
to ghosts of the prairie
we called weeds.
Copyright © 2011. Dave Seter. All rights reserved.