Trash

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.