Mowing the Lawn

Mowing the Lawn

(A love poem for Bonnie)

Starting a mower can be a real chore.

You yank and you pull till your arm is quite sore.

Cautiously, gently you increase the speed

Then it coughs and it sputters like you’ve done a misdeed.

Now that it’s running…you try a tentative lap,

But somehow you feel like you’re caught in its trap.

With confident stride you make one more quick pass,

But halfway around the bag’s full of grass.

You take off the bag and empty it out.

Will the engine restart, of this there’s grave doubt.

Now you are thinking of preserving your arm,

Is the neighbor man out, should you turn on the charm?

This may be the time to form a new plan.

Put an ad in the paper; find a lawn mowing man.

You take off the bag, let the grass blow at will,

Or don’t mow at all, that’s much better still.

You remember a sign you saw out by a farm.

To give them a call could not do much harm.

You decide that you don’t need a neighborhood vote,

They’ll understand, it would just be one goat!!

A goat is self starting, a joy to be near,

Tie a sack on its tail and it bags form the rear.

IT would love it in town and not miss the farm,

And because of its help you could use both your arms.

RDB