In my early teen age,
when mowing the lawn
was my only job,
the foreman was my Mother,
who once got so exasperated
by my dawdling that she said
“you’ll never amount to a hill of potatoes!”
I mowed down another row of grass,
then returned to my daydream
of what some girls at school
had amounted to already!
As Mom’s prediction burrowed in,
the seed of a poem took root.
Dave Read