Here's my newest poem. I worked on it in 3 big chunks till I got it right. The rototiller itself is right behind me here in the dining room. Where else are you sposed to keep a rescued rototiller? When Dan came over today, he saw it and absolutely fell in love with it. We always love our family & friends to love what we do, so I was very happy about this. He can't be bothered to read the damn poem. Who can? I try to keep them short. I'm not Robert Browning, after all, my duchess.
I PICK YOUR TRASH, JOHN LEONARD, NOW THAT YOU’RE GONE
at first they put out
the commode
seat up
to let it sink in
it sat on the grass
while kids passed by
what would they know of
rosebushes out front
or the hospice nurse
green dodge
parked under the carport
or about you, john leonard,
a man of ninety-five
in house slippers and morphine
visiting your garden out back
a week ago on garbage night
the invisible hand
lined up some broken rakes
and tumbledown shelves
I let them lie
seeking perfection
after your hip went last spring
you took me hobbling
through your backyard
Where did you learn to garden like that?
lilyponds with real frogs
birdhouses nailed to the pines
tarps to keep the benches dry
yesterday they put out a
rototiller
I took it at dusk
felt the length of the wood
for splinters or other irregularities
felt the rusty blades with my thumb
tamped it on the sidewalk
out fell the autumn leaves
from the previous fall
not this one
for you were no longer
protector of your lawn
I rolled it
on the sidewalk
this way and that
hefted it over my head
victorious at last
and stabbed it bloodless
in the soft of my hand.
