Lawncare

Now that he’s gone, my father’s mower

reclines stiffly in the garage

as if it were an invalid

propped in bed. The gasoline

that once coursed through

its engine slowly turns

to varnish, clogging its valves,

and the oil my father changed

every Spring

pools in the pan,

gradually thickening to sludge.

Even the work gloves

he left draped over the handle,

once as supple and agile

as a young man’s fingers,

have stiffened into claws,

the arthritic knuckles

refusing to let go. Meanwhile,

in the yard, the grass is poking

its head up, joining hands

with the dandelions and clover,

breaking bread with the bees.

Meanwhile, in the yard,

the grass has never felt so alive.

---

Doug Fritock is a writer and father of 4 living in Redondo Beach, California. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Puerto del Sol, The Black Fork Review, and Hunger Mountain, among others. He is an active member of Maya C. Popa's Conscious Writers Collective.