Push, push, cut the blades that stick-up,
Sticking-up being some sort of violation
Of an unwritten suburban expectation
That all will be blue-green and flat,
So, I'm out, under a hot Nebraska sun,
Mowing grass, there's no guarantee that
This act of gas-fed cutting, once begun,
Will ever deliver the result desired,
An end-state of green lawn perfection,
Which only leaves me burnt and tired.
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