Poets can only see motion,
dynamics, though they’re suckers for glacial.
What I’m getting at is stop standing still,
they can still see you.
I sing along with the radio as I mow,
and it’s unprofessional,
when I get off my tractor to shoo teen golfers from driving on the tees,
but I love the sunlight, and the music,
and care for the job.
But I imagine a flurry of red-plaid and beard screaming from the distance,
and save the red and the scotch, ground-keeper Willie bounces along in my head.
I see you though.
