I venture the tip of my boot on to the grass,
push down and see the blades fold. When they
rise back up slowly like awakening vampires
I think, Not yet. When it’s time to pull the cord,
hear the hesitant cough of a compliant engine,
send blades spinning to shear awaiting greenery,
I will make my mark. The grass will be long enough
so I will see the difference
when standing back in a white tee soaked
through from clearing clumps of the stuff
out of the blade housing. I will see the parallel
indents across the lawn made by the methodical
back and forth repetition of progress.
But now is not the time.
David Walker teaches and is the founding editor of Golden Walkman Magazine, a literary magazine in the form of a podcast. His fiction and poetry appears or is forthcoming in Words Dance, Cactus Heart, MadHat, Diversion Press, Paper Nautilus, and others. He can always be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org.