Sunday, October 24

The better part of October just rolled by over my head while I followed lawnmowers across the tiny front lawns and massive corporate grounds of Middle America's neighborhood associations and insurance companies. I picked up cigarette butts in front of department stores and navigated around little concrete statues while composing things in my head like

somewhere in a subdivision of hell
sisyphus walks eternally behind his mower
the wheels slipping on the wet slope
of some indifferent minor deity's little
patch of green; after every pass the
bag is full and by the time he returns
from emptying it into the truck
the grass is tall again and a fresh
layer of dead leaves has fallen.

I started fresh every day, but I never got much past the first line. Especially after the lawn equipment and the greenery took over my dreams.

Fortunately, I'm not doing that any more. Not that it was without its rewards.