This is what I see while driving, out my window, on the lawns going by. I see a boy, arms upstretched for mowing with a machine he’s slightly too small for, pushing up on the bars of the mower, blades whirring, tipping the maching up and over the tall grass, then pulling down on these handlebars, scupping the blades on the sand and gravel grass, uneven again in his frustrated mowing. I do not see the father inside, sweating in the fetid air, fanning himself with his own fat fingers, clutching a greasy remote, content to have offspring enough who can be taught the virtue of true labor, and the reaping of the vineyard’s rewards. And if I could see, I do not think I’d look. The boy alone is fine for me and my story, and I keep driving.