Weeding with the Cat

Weeding with the Cat

It's supposed to be in the nineties today.
The cat knows that and doesn't want to go outside,
prefers the crook of your knees as you lie abed reading
Harry Potter (Rawlings has cast a spell on you)
but I dump her out the door, fat cat, and join her
to weed, a game that I am losing
as summer moves along.

I grab them slowly, down close to the mulch,
slowly enough that the roots slide from the soil,
(bend from the waist and pull with the left,
transfer to the right hand, after awhile
deposit a full load in the clear bag
prescribed by our trash removal company
for lawn waste). Bending down, close in to the
reeds gone wild, crab grass, morning lilies,
and some sort of thistle I avoid,
I get gnats in my eyes. (Id feel sorry for them
as they die, but they are making the view murky.)

The lawn care man appears to do
our periodic fertilizing (6 times a year, putting
esoteric beads of something on the lawn
which makes it grow nice and green
and keeps the weeds down and I hope
doesnt run off into the water table
to make mutant fish, after all this is supposed to be
a non-chemical alternative company) and says
stay cool as he leaves.

Gypsy lolls in the shade, coming out to visit
only once, lisping a tentative inquiry.
When I go in, through the garage, she escapes
the great outdoors.