spiral

I don’t remember
that it used to be so hard
to cut this lawn

I can remember cutting all around
the place in a morning
and that was before mowers were
as light and the blade was all hacked
and chewed — but it was easier

The slope was less then, too
I’m sure and the sun
the sun was certainly not this hot
sure it’s global warming
planet’s going to hell the hard way
I recall swinging around this tree
like it was a race
smelling the fresh-cut turf was a pleasure
kind of a rich sweet warmth
burgeoned by the sun

Now here I am sitting like a time out
in the shade on this poor old table
like an old stud panting after
just looking over the pasture
from the barn door

Wife offers me a glass of water
time was it would be a cool beer
not now
now I have to watch the calories
calories is something I could use
right about now

Right about now
I could use a few sips of suds

I recall a day
heck it was over thirty years ago
stepped into a little pub
in Niagara On The Lake
hot day
I was waiting while the
teachers in the course I was running
attended a play
had to give my ticket
to a foolish woman
changed her mind
at the last moment
draft beer was fifteen cents
those little tapered glasses
they used in the men’s rooms
barren affairs
little round tables
for hard drinking
I ordered one, downed it
then another and another
soon some amazed gent
bought me a tray full
said he’d never seen such a thirst
went down like air into lungs
after a while
I didn’t miss that play in the least
body absorbed a tableful in a couple of hours

Couldn’t do that today
not even those little
fifteen cent glasses

be lying under this table

Yet each time I cut this grass
I seem to return
to the same place in time
just feeling it differently
sometimes its harder
sometimes its sweeter
sometimes I can
hear those voices weaving through
the roar of the motor
Hey daddy roar supper time roar
I see a little puppy near the edge of vision
buried under this very grass now
I see the faces just at the side
in the taller grass
all gone
I feel like a jog over to the sunrise
but it’s late afternoon
I want to hear the little voices playing Barbie
or truck war or a screen door slam
and sandy feet running to the bathroom
but they all have things to do
things about their cycles of work
and planting and cutting
and making

I get tired sometimes
let the grass go
it can wait for tomorrow

I reach for the water
and take a sip

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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