Caretaker
photo by Johannes Plenio
In my
dream, I am
cutting the lawn
at my grandfather’s
house.
It is
a lousy lawn of
dead yellow grass,
weeds here and there,
scattered
candy wrappers
and empty
cigarette packs.
I am
cutting
the lawn,
although I have
no idea why.
Both my
grandparents
have been dead
for well over
fifty years.
I am
not sure
if it is 1963
or 2023.
I think
it can’t be
the former
because a kid
eleven years old
might have
a tough time
pushing
a lawnmower.
I am
a full-grown adult
and I push
the lawnmower
in more or less
straight
lines.
I look over
at the neighbor’s lawn.
It looks like a
photo shoot published in
Better Homes & Gardens.
I have
no idea why
I am cutting the lawn.
Do I have a thing
for lawns?
I figure
nothing makes sense
because this is
a dream.
I push
the lawnmower
up near the house,
turn it off,
and walk into
the house.
I look
in the fridge
and see
a single can
of Falstaff
beer.
The can
does not have
a pull tab, so I look
in a drawer and find
a can opener
there.
I open
the can of Falstaff
and walk into
the other room
where there is a large
black-and-white television.
I turn it on
and sit on a sofa
opposite.
I see
Walter Cronkite
on the screen.
He
removes
black horn-rimmed
glasses and looks
at the camera
for a
moment.
The President
of the United States
is dead.
I take
a drink
from the can
of Falstaff and
think I heard that
somewhere
before.
