What I’m not thinking about is the lawn mower,
steel haunched, flush against the fenced-in yard, grass hardly
used because our dog died before she could ever wear
it down. The engine, in neutral, skips a beat, gags
on its spit, fuel lines dredged until I can’t stand listening.
You let it run ‘til there’s no more gas, you said. Leave it,
let it empty itself before winter. But I can’t stand to
listen to it. I can’t.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt
Copyright January 5, 2025
Based on Natalie Goldberg’s prompt cards, Writing Down the Bones.
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse, Writing Prompts
