at it again, again

at it again, again

"i'm digging a hole in your front yard
sorry, but you don't have

any"

snap

"any"

snap

he's snapping at me
as if the word is meant to
drop or fall or appear
from my gaping, speechless mouth

"any"

snap

"any"

snap

me gaping speechless
him digging breathing

"any"

snap

"any"

snap

"rosebuds, rose bushes, roses"

and i realize he hasn't been
looking at me.
he's looking behind me
eyes over my shoulder
the rest of my untouched lawn.

he goes back to his digging
already knee deep in front lawn dirt
and suddenly, understanding
doesn't seem an option for me.

"...and he would've killed me."

clumps of
dirt and weeds and grass
color my feet.
shoes are the last i think of
when he's on my lawn
digging.

"you should call next time"

with a hunch
dirt catapults over me.
at least the dirt had the courtesy of
peppering me, not covering me.

i

"where would

the fun

be"

out of breath
i

"come get some breakfast
it's barely three"

and he will, eventually
the third hole on the third day

at least it's my lawn where
he's at it again, again.

at least i'm awake to make sure
he doesn't bury himself.