Blooming

And then I write that love Can be a lawnmower and the man Pushing it. He wanted her because Her feet were the point of interest and He liked her aura, always Lost. Much like the stoop where she sat, A crumbling ribbon attached to the shell of his childhood home, She was lost like the yellow ball left in the rotted pool, A sack of suffocated rubber next To a silver pop tab. She had thought he was hard at Work but the stoop was always alive in his mind, Mostly when a cricket took rest by her Foot in a square of light that had Edged above her head, And he had watched her Eyes float towards it as if It were a child. It found shelter behind the plastic bucket Of gas while she bent down To see where it had gone, And then noticing his stare Covered her naked kneecaps To watch her toes. He had finished a row of grass and Coming up the lawn Caught her eye; he winked with his. Her agitation tumbled her, left her knees as Bare as the windows of the old house At her back, left her watching Him turn away while The grass bowed at both sides, Left the image of his stained pockets and her smile.