What is more American than a lawn?

Maybe even a fetish for some.

Dad, like everyone, had a push mower.

He said it would make his boys into men faster.

Insisted we go door to door for jobs,

$5 a cut and throw in free edging.

A way to learn business and earn cash.

 

We were small and frail,

the push mower nearly crippled us,

and the edger handle blistered our hands.

You don’t talk back to your dad.

We blistered and grunted.

 

Moved to a thoroughbred farm.

Overjoyed that Dad rented a big mower.

Lawn-free through my teen, college,

and hippie/radical years.

Only landlords needed mowers.

 

Got married, built a house,

contractor sold the black dirt,

left hard clay behind.

My pregnant wife and I laid straw

to protect the grass seed,

but the wind blew and a bee stung my mate,

who cried all the way to the emergency room.

 

Sod and neighbors saved us—

at least in the front—

the back raised itself.

I cut for years with my old gas mower,

until it got so hard to pull that damn rope.

Easy peasy with an electric for a while

till short breath slowed me down—

right into cardio world—

three stents and no more cutting.

 

I look at my lawn this morning.

The neighbor boy cuts it well.

Needs after school cash and no pain.

Some say no more cutting anyway.

Let it grow for the bees and good insects,

Some cities let you now.

 

Is there grass to cut in Heaven?

Eden watered itself.

Will the grass recycle then on its own,

no grass cutting as part of no suffering.

Won’t know till I get there.

And maybe mowing will be fun again,

the clean air of paradise blessing that chore.