Have any grass that needs to be cut?
Well, have I got the lawn mower with a powerful gut
That is my interpretation being well put
However, this lawn mower went out of control and entered onto the New England Thruway
Now that is what I call a getaway
Leave it too Mike
So what was he thinking?
So who is Mike?
Mike is your average Home Owner with having dreams of establishing a house
He was married and had a spouse
Our story starts when Mike’s wife, Marilyn said too Mike that the grass needs to be trimmed
Well a little encouragement as Mike had to be primed
Now Mike never owned nor knows how to drive a lawn mower
That means Mike must borrow from a nearby neighbor
Big mistake
It wasn’t going to be a piece of cake
Mike was trying to figure out on how to start the lawn mower
The start button was pushed on
This adventure could be long
So the lawn mower starts to move
But what will Mike prove?
For starters, Mike just cut through several neighbor’s gardens, and grass cut in half traces
This experience can never be erased
Well the lawn mower is heading down Maple Drive
Look out Motorist and pedestrians as who will survive?
So the lawn mower goes up the ramp onto the New England Thruway
But how far will the Lawn Mower be on the highway stay?
Astray as been labeled getaway
Traffic now is all back up
Everyone seems to be wondering why is a lawn mower on the Thruway
Well Mike can’t even explain himself
Later, Police pull the lawn mower aside
Now the Police and Mike now reside
The Police asked Mike what was a lawn mower doing on the highway?
Mike’s response was, “I was attempting to mow my house lawn?”
But the Police suggested to Mike, you definitely went the wrong way
However, why today?
Mike, the next thing he knew, the lawn mower moved out of control
Pure behold
Now the Police told Mike, you know where the lawn mower belongs
Lawn Mower Express
Don’t take it lightly nor less.

When my father was young he mowed lawns for money. He pushed a second-hand spinning blade in the hot Florida sun for spare change.

With dull coins clanging in his pocket and crumpled bills in his palm, my father fought to escape home.

To him, home was synonymous with scary southern suburbia, where late-night television  was replaced with screaming matches and loud fists. Angry eyes with children's cries. Barbecues bombarded with apologetic looks from neighbors. Pretending not to hear shatters and shouts of supposed 'baseball black eyes'.

And so he pushed. Pushed the rusty lawn mower down strangers' yards, pushed away the sniggering snot-nosed kids calling him '****', and pushed at his father's demons, crawling down his spine, whispering that he was no good.

Years later he kept pushing
Pushing
Pushing
Pushing towards whatever came next. Yet no matter how much he pushed, he was still the same boy with the lawn mower. Angry, mad, pushing violently ahead.

The smoke of sanity is inhaled now, as my father's blood-shot eyes try to suppress the angry boy within. The residue of stolen innocence is not left unnoticed. A touch of tone on his once sunburnt neck and the man he has made instantly flushes away, leaving his father's demons. Calmer than before, a dying star, burning bright before collapse.

Like a strong jaw, his father's anger is passed down to him, and I, his son, am now born with this seed of destruction. Smaller than before, but still seething.

Constantly reminded, I sit in a leather chair surrounded by white walls in carefully controlled climate, plastic pen perched on my palm, I push.

I'll keep pushing.