Indoors I Cry -Outside is Dreary, but Dry Doug Olmstead I mow the lawn in my flip flops and underwear, green and white polka dots. My ratty bathrobe is a cape of misadventure as I crawl along behind my push mower. Hewn heft of clogs or slivers of grass gravitating in a cyclotron of terror, mayhem, and lawn care. The lawn is a shamble of brambles and prick weeds and don’t forget the Creeping Charlie; too many complaints in this neighborhood, about length and length not, have gotten me out into this ‘fresh’ air, half naked but I don’t care. Inside, my inner self flutters the shades spying on me. He won’t come out to play, the cry-baby. He’s outside and I’m inside. Poor guy has to mow the lawn after the property owner had to come over and spoil our lazy fun. I’m just too depressed, he let me sleep and now I’m screaming in here and all is falling, shambling down. Only my rambling, trouble-filled soul can peer out these windows, and see the chaos in grass-form, so I’m going to shut the blinds
53
