The Mundane Dance

The grass has reached the height of silliness
and it, “Needs a mow,” Dad declares, perched
on the corner of the patio, slightly elevated
over his messy empire. “I promise to tomorrow,”
I tell him, while you're at work
when I can follow the wild edge
without scrutiny. I've learned
to dance with the machine,
to smooth the jagged contours into subtle curves
despite all four-wheels being fixed forward.
I am a monk, raking poetry into the sand.
I will destroy life for you.

To bring the mundane dance to the infinite,
start at the birdbath, spiral around it until the edge
imposes a straight line. A wild pattern will grow,
even from the patio, a peculiar evolution,
like the map of a robot's innards. At the end,
kill the engine's dinosaur roar,
smell the gassy, grassy air, watch
the sun reflect grass bent in different directions.
Inside the vacuum whines.
Mom is pushing it back and forth
from a fixed point like a child draws the sun,
beaming lines around its imperfect circle.