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
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.