The Green Green Grass of Home

Behind my glass door
I look out at my yard throughout the day
every day, and it's comforting.
It's nothing special, but it's mine.

I give it all I've got, sweaty and hot,
killing myself up Sisyphus hill
and in return
sometimes, briefly, it's nice enough to look at.

I work as hard as I can, just for appearances.
Just so people will see what they expect to see.

Rarely is my yard useful.
I don't spend much time enjoying it.
It's nice to have, but I don't need it.

I don't care to play in my yard,
to lay on my yard,
or to spend time talking to it.

I work to solve root problems
under the surface
then as quickly as possible wash the dirt and grass off my hands.

It's nice to have a nice yard
but in bitter cold it dries, and the grass dies
and that's sad, but I don't care.
It's not that important.
I turn away and I'm safely inside,
pulling the shades across my glass door.

My wife loves me
exactly
the same way I love my yard.