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Mowing the Lawn

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There is a certain system I follow in no particular pattern when I mow my lawn.

To prepare I’ll move the stainless-steel oil-splattered barbeque grill out of my way,


I’ll drag the heavy lightweight basketball net away from the dark bright green grass,

I’ll unscrew the rubber metal dog leash buried deep under the flimsy dirt,
And then I’ll open my elastic powered dusty storage garage and unveil




my shiny red master of death and all things holy.

I can now start my short and to the point process of mowing the lawn.
First, I must disable the helpful and yet inconvenient
sprinklers that hinder me in my unstoppable path of this job.
Before I can push my way onto the lawn, I put in my
snow white ear buds that go great for the summer.
I dig them into my ears like I would stick a dry shovel into wet mud.

Finally, I pull the hot black cord and hear the engine rumble,
I feel the recoil as the engine spurs and a jet black cloud of smoke
erupts from the exhaust, engulfing the pavement in a disorienting darkness that
covers the sun momentarily but then disappears as I continue my troublesome task.
I start with the front yard and cut in curvy perfect lines
leaving a pattern with the shaking machine.
The music acts as a soundtrack as the long sharp blades cut in
slow motion, lightning fast, plunging deep into the overgrown dark grass.

In no time, I have already finished with the front portion.
I bat cold sweat beads off my forehead as I get ready to finish.
The music still keeps me going like an endless generator of low energy.
I take a break to recharge my short patience for the longest stretch yet.
It's a tougher chore to finish the back lawn so I work around my obstacles
making it look immaculate, like a prized gem for show.

After I have finished, I take a long broom from the dusty storage garage,
I sweep the discharged grass like a worn down hairdresser would
after shaving a hippies scalp, I pour the remnants of the lawn into
a giant brown bag, sprinkling the green pixie dust so that no evidence remained.
A certain stench remained in the open air even after the mower was shut down and stowed away; the artificial smells of moist gasoline and a job well done
cycle through both of my nostrils.
I heave my shoulders, and then head back inside my house,
I was relieved to have gotten that done.





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