Troy's Hands

Troy's hands are sweaty and cracked,
scars and scabs covered by his heavy brown gloves.
Pushing the lawnmower with one hand, he brings
his other hand up to his mouth, taking a drink from
a warm can of Busch Light.
I would think he imagines his property is a wild jungle,
and he needs to clear a path so we can all be safe.
I'll ask him how much longer until he's finished with
his chores, or if he needs me to start chopping wood.
"Damn it, Rodney," he'll reply, "get me another beer."