Thursday, October 29, 2009

In Which I Cry Uncle

I couldn't find it, deep beneath the snow
The feeder that the birds and wind knocked down
And buried sometime during last night's blow.
I'm sure it's much the same all over town.
My pupils down to pinpoints in the glare,
My fingers freezing in their gloves, I tried
To dig a path for postmen, cars - I care
That people try to do their jobs despite
Conditions. They were pitiful enough,
My efforts; I could not sustain too much,
Could not draw breath sufficient for the tough,
Laborious removal of, as such
A day's and night's accumulation. I'm
Still dizzy as I type out this here rhyme.

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