Everything about our sad front lawn makes the sound “sorry.”

Sorry, “Mr. and Mrs. Green,” we can’t get ours as lush as yours.
Not that we’ve tried everything.

Sorry, mail carrier. That plant in your way?
We haven’t Googled to see if it’s a weed or something exotic we should care for.

Sorry, dog walker. The shit
you left behind will still be there for you next time around.

Sorry, sidewalk jogger. I noticed those low branches too,
but every time I duck under them, the reminder
I mean to make leaves my brain
as I step inside the house.

Sorry, next door neighbor about
the leaves drifting across
the driveway from our yard
into yours. We didn’t rake this year.

We spent October at the hospital; November at hospice; the day before Thanksgiving
at the cemetery.

Linda M.J. Muller

This poem first appeared in Lyrical Iowa 2018, published by The Iowa Poetry Association.