The
Chainsaw Days of September
As mandated by the recent hurricane
These are the chainsaw days, humid
and hot
Wind-blasted shingles and
wind-blasted trees
And clearing windfall in the
gasping heat:
Litter to the burn-piles,
firewood to the stacks
Even the bees seem tired, but
the hummingbirds
Around the feeders form flittery
clouds
As if they have suddenly received
orders
For their long autumn flights
to Mexico
But as for me, I work and sweat
and stink
Pausing sometimes to watch the sky,
and dream
(As
Freud did not say, sometimes a chainsaw is just a chainsaw. Don’t grasp at
metaphors that aren’t there; people will stare at you. And if you grasp at a chainsaw you will lose your hand. And then people will stare at you even more while taking MePhone pictures of you in your agony. They won't do anything for you, of course.)
