Lawn Maintenance

The mower finally quit its screaming,

leaving a smell like cut stems and fuel.

I walk out for the gas bill, feeling

the cold green sink against my heel.

There is a square of yellowed, dead thatch

where the blue bucket sat all through June.

It is the exact shade of the patch

of skin on your knuckles. I spoke too soon

on the phone when I told you I was fine.

The wet blades itch between my toes.

I shouldn't have said the money was mine.

That's how a small lie grows and grows.