The Mow Town

The Mow Town At eight a.m the front doors open And synchronized the dads appear; The garage doors roll up slowly Revealing tools and gardening gear. Like programmed bots the daddies move And float inside for gasoline; Clanging, thudding, cursing madly Returning flushed – their hands unclean. The mower’s dragged onto the path; Propped-up beneath with dirty bricks; The fuel’s poured in, but up it splashed To daddy’s eye, “You f**kin’ p**k!” After a while of mass eye washing Another sight of dads on lawns; Pulling chords with tensed-up biceps; A tired old chug, the mower yawns. Eventually, with effort more The droning’s heard around the town; The alpha males, gung-ho but merry Make straight lines, one up one down. The satisfaction once complete Enough to make dads proud strong men; Put the mower back into the garage; Go get ready, football at ten. The mothers emerge, still in robes Lethargic, dazed, somewhat unfit; “You better get that out again Look! Over there, you missed a bit.”