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A Haircut for the Yard | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Herb’s wife says the grass
needs cutting and Herb agrees.
She says the neighbors are
upset he hasn’t cut it
for the last five weeks.
Property values are at stake,
she reminds him softly.

Herb’s wife is usually right.
But the temperature this week
is near 105 and the sun would
torch anyone behind a mower.

Herb tells his wife let’s not
worry about the grass until
they look out the window
and the grass is so high
they can’t see the sky.
When that happens

Herb says he’ll go out
and swing his sickle
and decapitate the grass.
Buncombe like this
Herb’s wife has heard
so many times before
her response is one more
Holland Tunnel sigh.

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