Redundant

The pavement is steaming, a grey, heavy breath,

while the clouds overhead promise a cool, sudden death.

The sky has split open, a deluge of slate,

but the timer is set and it won't negotiate.

Tuck-tuck-tuck goes the plastic head,

spitting at mud where the grass is all dead.

A mechanical hiss in the roar of the flood,

pumping more water into the blood.

It fights with the storm for the sake of a lawn,

grinding its gears until the rhythm is gone.