It grows.
I can’t hear it,
I can’t see it,
but it grows nonetheless,
and thus I must maintain it.

My bitter responsibility,
to give my community something nice to see;
make it clear,
I have things under control.
There is nothing to hide inside this home.

Ceaselessly it grows,
and to keep it healthy;
not just well kept but vibrant,
I must feed it.
Strengthen and hasten its progress.

It grows-
and I must do more.
I must give more,
to keep it level and clean.
Not let it overtake the stake I’ve claimed,

let this plot of land
become gnarled wild tufts,
unruly- lacking discipline.
A space that
reflects aspects of the occupants it protects,

else it will grow
an uneasy sense of threat.
The not quite right
of an unkempt lawn- empty flower bed.
It grows, and so I must mow, and mow, and mow, and mow, and mow.