The long-handled hoe
For the weed, the grass
Chopping in late afternoon.
In the morning the shoulder,
The hand, and the head
Looking down each
Passing season.
“Look up,” I’ve heard,
“Thy redemption draweth
Nigh.” My eyes water
When I try. I’ve
Taken my rake
To the weeds
And seen them
Into a barrel
Which I push
And shove out
Front and do look
This way and that
For the trash truck
I hear drawing nigh.
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