TOO DEPRESSED TO MOW
by Mercedes Lawry
I build a box and bury it, along with clues.
I sputter and lie to the only ones who matter.
I follow the line in the tall grass, itching.
I smirk with regret.
I finish the soap and keep it to myself.
I age gracefully and then I don’t.
I tear up paper airplanes, causing tears.
I abhor milk but can’t explain.
I forget to dust repeatedly.
I climb the apple tree, inviting peril.
I repeat myself.
Gyroscope Review - !38