The Pub

Yard Work

Erin Lynch

I’m fortunate to have a steady wage,
to wake with bark dust tangled in my hair
like claws. Daily, dirt accumulates,
aches contract my back. Rather than swear,
I kick a shrub in protest of the way
life is spent counting petty scars,
copying the same productive day
like a resilient weed in someone’s yard.
To cope, I belt Bruce Springsteen, blinded by
the light for eight straight hours while a lone
mountain like a thorn pierces the sky,
giving me the finger. Driving home,
it appears closer in the mirror — strange
how the snow cap shimmers like loose change.