Clara sauntered the clover-ridden lawn
to spray one blade at a time, spritz
life giving droplets of remorse, regret
for not giving a damn I would be the one
who mowed the carpet she grew so well.
Each night, the same. Hose in one hobbled
hand, glass of water dripping in the other,
mottled eyes of a fish, bulging so far they fall
to her glass, adding color to the ice.
She soaked her blue grass and clover and weeds,
then called to me, begging in her crass way,
please mow one more time this week.
Ten dollars per week meant one free mow;
negotiations closed-I was a kept boy.
Talking to Clara after six was conversational
hari kari. Words committed suicide, went unheard,
or deafened by the fog in her house. Sheers on her windows
served to share nightly rituals denuded by hundred watt
bulbs. As I watched this shadow play, high definition
television in a 70s world, Clara reached for the bottle
and poured another glass of vodka.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones