The boy who mowed his father’s lawn
becomes a man. His Alfred E. Neuman acne
dries and soon his toothy grin ossifies,
learned for girls and yearbook photographs.
When he mowed his father’s lawn to Styx
little did he know he’d mow the master’s too,
some Boston refugee, away from the rat race
just down the street, tossing a coin at him.
Mr. Moneybags, mutters this adolescent,
seeing red or Daddy Warbuck’s coat-tails.
All summer circling grounds in a tractor mower
he chews away the sweet ends of grass and sneers,
as he – freckle-faced Archie, Alfred E.– behind
the grin (shit-eaten, learned rigor mortis) pondered:
Those secular dukes muttering about emissions
swishing their vintage Chardonnay in their mouths
will be no more. Those diamond-studded emigres
I will depose, squire with trailer-trash,
and mark what’s mine with monotones more pungent
than any piss-stain, rabid strain or pedigree.
Their dreams I’ll fuck up with developments alright
grinned this Archie who let me go from the position.
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