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Ode to a Push Mower

by Kevin T. McEneaney
Tue Sep 26th, 2017

You were the sweet sweat machine,

even at evening in August

when waning sun was orange orb

lingering in glory on the horizon.


Pushing the mower

at the age of nine

on my third go-around

(since some patches always

needed to be re-mowed),

I began, absurdly, to resent

Nature’s fertility.


I especially enjoyed clipping

the teeth of ground-hugging dandelions;

I was horrified by budding burdock,

yet too lazy to dig up roots.


Being bored I wished to watch tv

in all its trivial banality,

free from the sweat lingering

on my neck and small of back

that tingled with untapped strength

amid the apparent immortality

of childhood in gloaming dreams

where weeds even entered my dreams.