(To Frost’s ‘Mowing’)
The only sound was a million cars as one,
with sleepy drivers sipping coffee; work bound.
What is this all for? I thought to myself,
bent arm in the window shielding the sun,
lost in the windy push of static sound,
rushing. Not only the cars could speak
complaints of controlling higher powers;
the drivers also claimed they have no self,
as they grumble down the highway to bleak
frightful futures. And no one really knows
the bounds of their life. How many hours?
In this life – determined to make a quake!
This is for the chore that everyone knows;
to bear the yoke of money we have yet to make.
Billy Thrasher is a graduate of the Lindenwood University MFA program class of 2017: email@example.com.