He Mows My Lawn
He mows my lawn in a clown suit this time. When he’s done he’ll leave without pay. That’s the ritual. The neighbors have stopped questioning me. Even Jones the dog next door sleeps through the ordeal now. But the first time he arrived eyebrows were raised, Jones erupted on his chain and I went out to query him. He wore a tuxedo that first time. I called the police. But he was back the next month in a yellow bikini strutting up and down the front yard at 9 a.m. Sometimes I think I know why he mows my lawn, but however sound my theory may appear on first thought, it falls apart like cold fusion explanations on the second. He does not rake the mulch and usually leaves a tuft or two still standing. The smell of fresh cut grass lingers into the afternoon. I think that’s how he’d like to be remembered.