A Poem about my Father, the mechanic.

Sometimes poems don't fit to music - so they just live as text.

Shovel

Right now I'm daydreaming about writing the next Great American novel -

But I don't write novels.

At the same time, I find myself wishing that I could win the lottery.

But that's impossible, I don't play the lottery.

In truth, I'm happy where I'm at: reclined in this chair made of

books of poetry and lined paper, ink bottles and hollow feathers -

bones of birds.

I prefer the hand writing process while listening to music and snoring 

dogs. It's the simple things I adore and find peace in.

Like snow and shovels and the quiet still nights.

I use a shovel to clear my driveway while the snowblower sits

marooned in the garage. It was a fussy thing that only ran on spray gas.

When it wouldn't start, I'd cuss at it and kick the chained rubber tires and

wrestle the pull start from my shoulder sockets.

All the while snow kept falling, piling up,

confused at the sight of me and my dumb machine.

After a while of pointless arguing and a stream of obscenities soaked in gasoline, 

I shamed the fussy, cold-lifeless metal for it's lies and sent it back to its cell,

where all the other power tools I don't use have been sent to live.

I grabbed my shovel first and it was lovely and quiet. We depend on one another. We understand our relationship well. The warm wooden handle once a breathing tree, did not die in vain. It remains useful. And I don't have to threaten the shovel saying: "When I win the lottery I'm going to buy the most advanced, expensive snow-blowing technology on the market."

My father, the mechanic, has a new expensive snowblower and they fight all the time.

But he likes to fight machines.

I'm tired of fighting so I push and I push at a slow and gentle pace, my breath as easy as the midnight, midwinter snow falls.

This way I can save my strength so that when I go back inside, I can sit with my dogs by the fire and pretend to start working on the next Great American novel.