Thomas Cannon

Pushed his mower in pajama bottoms

leaving green crescents of missed grass.

In the dusty air of the garden shed,

bags of musty mulch

sat next to the rototiller

with weeds tangled in the tines.

His boys begged for a day at the lake.

He bought two happy meals

instead of hot dogs for the propane stove.

He didn’t play shark or

hoist them in the air by one foot.

The fallen apples of August

brought bees

and drove the boys inside

where they played cars and soldiers

on the terrain of his blanketed legs.