the phone dies after

you must’ve known that

there was a moment straddling laughter

breathing in sunlight

absorbing the cut grass of bugs and air

where you were playing with your neighbourhood friends

for the last time

you maybe realized it

when you were summed at 44

reigning in a lawn mower

picking at your now ruined pants

and your kids ask you to join them

you say you

are tired muddy a wave of sweat

from today’s

last shift at what will be

your last stable job

you tell them to ask their mother

you do not hear her response

the summer cicadas are too loud

complaining about being late again this year

crashing on the ocean of grass stains like rusty anchors

out in the wilderness of neighbours you don’t know and hedged-off driveways

you set a reminder to yourself

the grass will need another cut

in two weeks