On Sunday afternoons in August,
the streets and sidewalks
of Fairview are empty and drowsy.
The gentle buzz of weed wackers,
dispersed every few blocks,
cloaks the neighborhood
with a musing white noise.
Each yard tool operated by working men
dressed in cut-off tees and gym shorts.
In no apparent rush, they move with care
along flower beds and chain-linked fences.
Their shoulders slouched
from the weight of the machine,
their faces mute and expressionless,
neither frustrated nor content, the mind given space to wander.
It is the same face that stares
back through the mirror
each Tuesday morning, while trimming
stubble hidden beneath cheekbones.
Back and forth, the massage of metal against skin,
and the hum of the razor droning on and on,
drowning out fears, longings, hopes: anything
that tries to crop up.