What first comes across our minds About the stocky MexicanPushing a mower across the lawn At 7 a.m. on a SaturdayAs the roar of the cutter wakes us? Let me take a guess.Why do they have to come so damn early? What do we make of his flannelShirt missing buttons at the cuffs, Threadbare at the shoulders,The grass stains around his knees, The dirt like roadmaps to nowhere,Between the wrinkles of his neck? Let me take a shot. Dirty Mexican.Would his appearance lead us to believe He is a border jumper or wetbackWho hits the bar top with an empty shot glass For the twelfth time then goes homeTo kick his wife around like fallen grapefruit Lying on the ground?First, the stocky Mexican isn’t mowing the lawn At 7 a.m. on a Saturday.He doesn’t work weekends anymore ever since He lost one-third of his routeTo laborers willing to work for next to nothing. Second, he knows better than to kneelOn the wet grass because, well, the knees Of his pants will become grass-stainedAnd pants don’t grow on trees, even here, Close to Palm Springs.Instead, after 25 years of the same blue collar work, Two sons out and one going to college,Rather than jail, and a small but modest savings In case he loses the remaining two-thirdsOf his work—no matter how small and reluctantly The checks come in the mail—My father the stocky gardener believes He firmly holds his lifeIn both his hands like pruning shears, Chopping branches and blossoms,Never looking downward as they fall to his feet In pieces like the American dream.