Not being the one to do the work
Of mowing my lawn every couple of weeks
Waking up or passing out to
Hands on a pushmower out my bedroom window
The landscapers scaping the land
At what feels like the crack of dawn
Waking up to a full compost bin
And a barren backyard
It’s a trip
Nothing inside is maintained
With the same aim to minimize clutter
And maximize space - open space
It’s like nothing is better to look at
Than thriving - expanding environments
Left to incorporate anything ready to grow
Refuse accepted as art as it piles up
Hoarding possibilities and information
And meaningful clutter
Gutting it isn’t just clean
It’s reductive