Lawn Boy on a Train

I'm a disoriented lawn boy.
I have a gas mower, a leaf blower, and
a weed whacker but no grass to cut,
hedges to trim, weeds to whack,
and no leaves to blow.

I'm a lawn boy without a purpose,
no sense of direction on a train
heading southbound, perhaps the wrong way,
to a destination of no return,
and the last station of despair.

If I get off at the next exit,
who says there will be uncut grass,
and not cement and macadam?
If that's the case, I'll be losing time and money,
needing to return the mower
by the end of the day.

I will not let this railroad stand in my way.
I'm going to push the choke,
pull the starter and get the engine humming—
despite being on a fast-moving train
with the doors locked shut,
and the passengers giving me dirty looks.

Lawn Boy on a Train

Careful not to cross the yellow line,
I mow invisible grass down the aisles,
and count my chickens before they're hatched.
I think of the dreams I want to achieve—
to be the best landscaper,
the most creative topiary,
suburbia has ever seen.