There is always plenty of time
to think while mowing.
I move in the same squarish
lines I always do.
First, I get up, then I shower,
then I pontificate.
The audience is trained
to look like they are listening.
Are they?
Finally, the swift stroke,
the edging work, and I am
on my home again, home again
like yesterday and the day
before, trying not to work late,
trying to sleep again
and remember my movements.
A shade of what
might have been cut down
living life looking backward
or even sideways
is a difficult way to travel.
But I have my mug
all of my supplies
with a beaten path forged.
It’s that life’s stuck,
Stuck in one place,
Refusing to move forward,
Each day passes as the same,
Giving the same pain,
Like a cassette playing the same tune,
Life’s such a ruin.
Deja vu all over,
The same faces,
The same expression,
The same me.
Sometimes I want to run away
Even the clock repeats itself.
Trying to change it all over,
Trying hard,
But stuck there too.
In the quagmire the two-step
and marching in place
substitute for moving forward.
However, yielding to the swamp
grows mold, moss, camouflage
around eyes and on rears.
Liver and vessels become muck.
Every body part yearns for mud.
The frog on the lily pad
squatting in the chest
would learn to sing if limbs
weren’t bogged down in doubt.
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