For no other motive than to make a painful memory live on,
The sleeveless man mows what equates to a miniature lawn.
Careful around the cross and jar,
the flower inside appears to have been dead
for some time.
Sweating out the distress,
each pass on his machine is an attempt
to make amends
for the apparent crime.
What is on this man's mind
as he toils through the overpowering smell
of gas?
Does he reflect
on his own life
as he watches each car
pass?
He is now finished with the job, as he replenishes the vase,
And he wipes a green bandanna across his wet face.
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