Mowing the Quiet

The sun is too loud for a place like this,

shining off the chrome of a trailer hitch

where a man in neon mesh unloads a deck.

He’s here to take the clover down to the grit.

I’ve stayed away so long the map has shifted,

new names carved into the granite teeth

that push up through the manicured hill.

I’m standing by a patch of plastic turf,

a bright, dishonest green meant to cover

the raw wound where the dirt is still soft.

It’s a strange mercy, I suppose,

hiding the work of the shovel until the grass takes hold.