Monday, December 8, 2014


There are days when the
Sun dies young, behind houses,
Between bare branches
Long rid of their amber leaves.
My back and forearms ache as

I pull piles from the
Gutter so it won't clog when
It rains later; an
Alert on my phone says it's
Inevitable. My old

Rake is rusted, too
Often abandoned
Overnight in the yard. It
Greets me like a slighted friend,
Pushing splinters into bare

Hands. Who knew tools could
Be so vindictive? I plead
Sincerity in
Waning daylight: let us work
Together once more, and I

Won't forget to put
You back in the garage when
We're done.

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