A Poem in 3 and a ½ Parts

Tiny threads

tend to hold things together,

Like sutures

when you lose a spleen.

I fix the leaky kitchen sink

that is rotting the floor.

But the floor stays rotten.

Covered with a blue throw rug

from Wall-mart.

Until I fall into the basement,

while cooking eggs,

six years, four months,

and eight days later.

Driving back from babysitting

my sister’s young children,

I saw a man cutting the grass

of the ditch,

alongside the cemetery.

He struggled with the mower.

Slipping.

Readjusting the wheels.

Muscling it back into place.

Trying to mow parallel lines

along the embankment.

It was then I realized

that this is my perfect job,

Or career,

if you will.

(I’ve bought a second hand

lawn mower,

so please show me

an unkempt grave yard.

I will cut the grass

with the utmost precision,

And then go home.

When it grows back,

let me know,

And I will come

and cut it again.)