Vern Fein
Cutting the lawn,
a bright Spring day.
Stepped into some fresh dog dookie.
Soft and squishy,
smell wafting into my cursing nostrils.
Got a stick, poor stick,
cleaned off the shoe.
Donned other old ones.
Revved up the engine,
odor rising from the roar.
Ran over a broken stalk of lilacs,
stink of bloom.
I cut on.