They roll out of a truck riding
growling orange machines
steered with two sticks
like the reins of a team
of horses, more horsepower
and noise than the simpler
mowers they replaced, once
pushed by dads or hired kids.
They come with screaming
air cannons strapped to bodies
armored against their own
noise and choking dust
the growling rising and falling
like columns in a fountain
to the logic of: this is the price
you pay to admire my lawn
with its unused hardware
superstore gazebo occasionally
visited by curious neighborhood
children and dogs seeking relief.
Well Bottom Blues 
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