by Matt Stancel
I’ve noticed my neighbors are great at cutting lawns.
Straight lines shaved into the grass look so neat, and some are perfect diagonals.
I struggle to cut with any sort of pattern or real direction.
My lawn ends up with terrible ovals, rectangles, rhombuses, trapezoids, and whatever shape Nevada is.
I begin with the best intentions, traveling along the driveway and street with precision.
By my third lap, I’m thinking about something like the relevance of religion or T.S. Eliot or the shape of the universe.
Soon after, I’m questioning my choice of career, the job that keeps me from my family, writing, and lawn care responsibilities.
Now I’m mowing in cursive.
The back yard is reserved for chapters that will probably never be written
and characters who will never be born.
Settings are imagined and forgotten.
There are massacres—fire ant mounds maliciously destroyed by machine and being
they cannot comprehend.