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More poems by Thomas LuxThomas Lux | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Thomas LuxBooks by Thomas Lux

The Man Into Whose Yard You Should Not Hit Your Ball

Thomas Lux

each day mowed
and mowed his lawn, his dry quarter acre,
the machine slicing a wisp
from each blade's tip. Dust storms rose
around the roar: 6:00 P.M., every day,
spring, summer, fall. If he could mow
the snow he would.
On one side, his neighbors the cows
turned their backs to him
and did what they do to the grass.
Where he worked, I don't know
but it sets his jaw to: tight.
His wife a cipher, shoebox tissue,
a shattered apron. As if
into her head he drove a wedge of shale.
Years later his daughter goes to jail.

Mow, mow, mow his lawn
gently down a decade's summers.
On his other side lived mine and me,
across a narrow pasture, often fallow;
a field of fly balls, the best part of childhood
and baseball, but one could not cross his line
and if it did,
as one did in 1956
and another in 1958,
it came back coleslaw -- his lawn mower
ate it up, happy
to cut something, no matter
what the manual said
about foreign objects,
stones, or sticks.

Added: 15 Sep 2001 | Last Read: 19 Jun 2018 10:27 AM | Viewed: 6874 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/1808/ | Viewed on 19 June 2018.
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