My neighbor mows his lawn in the nude;
It’s not an attractive nude
like a Brancusi sculpture,
no Modigliani here
or even one of Rodin’s lesser-known works;
It’s more on par with those chain-saw pieces
you see along the road in Maine or Arkansas.

In spite of the assault on the senses
this event entails,
I marvel at his courage,
given the velocity at which
a rock or piece of hidden limb
can bounce off the stone wall
he skirts (if only) next to his house.

When I was growing up
Summers were spent shirtless, shoeless;
Despite the frequent reddened skin,
the stubs and cuts and bites,
the feel of mud oozing between toes
And fresh-cut grass
was worth the pain, soon forgotten.

Perhaps that’s it:
He’s trying to regain that long-ago
freedom and lack of care;
But I’d prefer to see him in more
than SPF-52.