Stomping through the ‘Hood on a Recent Evening
with apologies to Robert Frost
Whose leaves these are I think I know.
His house is not on this street though.
He cannot see me seething here.
He’s busy finding things to blow.
My little dog must think it queer
the way I’m tearing out of here,
a garden rake clutched like a sword
and on my face a boarish sneer.
The blinding dust, the deafening roar,
the Marlboro butts at my front door.
More fuel used up for easy’s sake.
I’ve had it; I’m declaring war.
Through storm of trash and twigs I quake
and give my rake a violent shake.
I find the man out near his pool
with blower that I want to break.
“I scream at him, “This rake’s a tool
you use like this: you reach, you pull,
and piles appear. It’s really cool!
And quiet too! You thoughtless fool.
