I bend over the snow
like the branches bend under it,
and I am sick of thischore.
This white, like a war
with thousands of young soldiers
wieldingtru-test guns with wooden handles.
Or semi-automatic blowers of
winterdeath.
Everything can be heard
the chirp of a bird that is warm in KeyWest
the crunch of a chained tire on a road
and the scrape of a mighty plowfinding asphalt.
With this the longing sigh of the soldiers.
Should I wavemoney like a drooling oaf
at a bar, staring at the smooth curves of theplow
jiggling on a stage?
Had I a plow, I would free the young men of their
misery like a purposeful bob hope!
I would sweep all the driveways freealways
recalling that the job of a plowman ends not
on the thickly packedroads, but continues until all
are pleased with fine clear driveways cut intothe snow.
I would put chimes on the chains and play cottoncandy
musicthrough blaring horns on the hood.
I would kiss babies and hug frail mothersin their electric muumuu
bathrobes with freezing
tears of joy on their rosycheeks and say,
"It's only my job, ma'am, only my job!" and I'd fly round thecorners
with a waving arm out the window winking at
squealing children andthumbupping their snowmen!
And like Chasin with her plum, so would I be withmy
plow!
Or perhaps I should build character by lifting shovels
of snowand making big piles for children to jump in and
thrash to make angels.
SoI will shovel instead with inkling resentment
for the sunglassed man behindthe plow
and his limited job knowing always that I can
shovel the yard if Iwant to and lie out in shorts
hoping that spring's kiss will end the war for awhile.