BB Grey–musings

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the old woman is making a war

in the other room—

shoving anything not nailed down,

raising more dust

than she ever sweeps up.

I don’t look.

looking is an invitation.

and it’s Saturday.

and Sunday is coming.

“preach it,” I whisper

to no one.

I hold my phone

like it’s a holy book.

feel her glance

from the doorway.

the corners of our eyes collide.

I straighten—

a ghost moving for the door.

the grass ain’t cut.

mostly because it died.

you can’t afford water

to pretend it lives.

the shed door sags on its track,

a warning I ignore.

old Toro waits inside.

I give him a good tug.

he exhales a two-stroke cartoon,

a black plum of smoke,

and chokes.

I choke too—

on another yank.

takes everything I have

to make him roar.

or sputter.

at least he’s alive.

not like those silent electrics,

aliens sneaking across the lawn,

defying the law

that movement should sound

like something.

I stencil dead grass.

this direction,

then that—

rows on a chessboard of neglect.

I think of running Toro

perpendicular,

but see the tank

sucking the last vapor.

better to let him stall

like I meant it.

I half smile

to my woman:

I’m doing my part.

then retire the beast,

prop the shed door up

for the next sucker.

the ponies are running.

a grey horse should come in—

if only it would rain.

rain would level the field

against the favorites,

their brushed hair,

their polished coats.

I could win

on a 30-to-1 mudder,

a grey made for such days—

black and white,

sprinkled with gold,

Lafayette Pincay

in pink,

in bold silks.

I fluff the racing form,

suck in the nicotine,

throw a chin and an eyebrow

at my wife—

a told-you-so look.

Go West Young Man

comes in strong,

turning grey to green.

looks like we’ll be eating

chicken tonight.

sweeping thoughts

under rugs and couches

that never move.

it’s Saturday.

I shut the door.

those two Mormon boys

walk up the path.

I ain’t got enough sin

left in me

that needs forgiving.