Making the Final Cut
Nearly out of gas this time,
the rusty mower slowly cools,
gazing out, beneath the shade,
at all its choppy handiwork:
those roses it could not exempt,
weeds it would not reach, again,
rocks which dulled its blades, again,
but, then, the lawn. "Look at that lawn."
"So even green. So smoothly shaved.
A fitting end to my career.
I cut it well. I made it clear,"
its replacement rolling near.
Making the Final Cut © Copyright 2021, Robert J. Tiess.
View this poem at AllPoetry.com
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Submitted: April 26, 2019