Our neighbor’s lawn is manicured,
His mower painting uniform stripes in weedless, uniform grass
Every Wednesday and Saturday, unless it rains.
Even his back yard gets a pedi.
Beyond a property line sculpted with a swirl like French tips,
Begins our own jungle of bitten fingernails
And overgrown cuticles.
His sprinkler heads chirp tirelessly, morning and night.
Eight colors and heights of green or mostly-green, shorn every fortnight,
Our patchwork yard is more weed than not.
It’s country lawn on a city house.
The only plants we tend are the dandelions.
Despite the unkempt appearance,
The functionality of our turf appears unhindered by an extra week’s growth.
And once golden blossoms turn to puffballs,
There’s fun to be had.
Barefoot and frolicking, ankle deep, on warm Saturdays
We eye our neighbor as he mows,
Pitying him for working so hard.
He eyes us back, all tennis shoes and black socks.
For all his effort, he never stays to enjoy his handiwork.
Retreating to his garage, and not to his wife.
He leaves us to breathe the scent of cut grass in his absence.
We’ve never see them together.
Twice each summer, I give our hedges a five-minute hack job
That would get a trainee fired from Supercuts.
How many hours he spends sculpting shrubs with hand shears,
Alone with his thoughts.
We wonder if the disparity in landscaping troubles him.
Some weeks I shear our turf a little early just in case.
But it may also boost his personal pride, standing out the way it does.
We’ve never really seen him smile.
We make wishes blowing dandelion seeds
At the end of every summer day, unless it rains.
We wish for our neighbor to be happy
And blow our dandelions into his manicured yard for good luck.