Mowing

The fescue bows before the blade,
a green surrender
to the order I have spent ten years perfecting.

The light is doing that thing it does in June—
bleaching the moment away
before it has even passed.

I think of my dad,
who mowed in straight lines,
and how I’m mowing in straight lines,
writing a temporary history
in the smell of gasoline and cut chlorophyll.
The engine hums a low, steady prayer
for everything we try to keep tidy.

Over the low roar, I hear a distant siren.

Then more.

It arrived so fast,
tires screeching—
a white Ford Bronco.

I think I recognize the wall
of man stepping out.
He played for the 49ers.

It’s Al Cowlings.

“My man! Hey, how do I get to the freeway?”

I let the mower die
with a fleeting concern
that it will start again.
The words stumble out:
“Take a left on Sepulveda, then the ramp
is just past the Blockbuster.”

The light glances off the windows of
the Bronco dashing off.
A sharp smell of rubber hangs over the yard.

The sirens grow louder still.

Turning back to the mower,
I resume.