TinkerX

In Summer, when the grass is high
the Blower Man must die.
His porch is outside in the air,
the wind brings dust to gather there
and I hear whining everywhere
everywhere
everywhere
the high-pitched, droning, drilling, screening
screaming of his power blower
cutting through my Saturday,
my only-nap-day, get-a-way
across the street and up the hill
the shrill, high, pierce
that makes me think to kill
the Blower Man.
Your porch is outdoors, man! God-damn!
That’s where dust lives!
Leave it alone.
Please stop with your infernal drone!

I must kill the Blower Man
when Autumn’s leaves turn rust and tan.
He’s not alone this time of year,
but, please… let me be clear.
For whereas others rake or blow
a time or two before the snow
replaces leaves, the Blower Man
must blow each night at 6pm.
The dinner hour! Sancrosanct, until
he shredded it with dentist’s drill!
I can’t escape
there’s no escape from
his piteous, electric scrape.
I just want to eat
my buttered peas.
Please, Blower Man…
Shut up, soon. Please…

In Winter, when the snow falls sweet,
I’ll kill him in his sleep.
Before an inch has had a chance
to settle on the still warm land
and melt away in just an hour…
he’s out again with his noxious howler.
He’ll blow it three times in the space of a day.
While it won’t even stick
on his neighbors’ driveways.
But at 7am… and at 10… and at noon.
He’ll be out making noise
like a tortured, mad loon, and I swear
that the peaceful, soft sight of the the snow,
coating the trees and the streets down below
is transformed into hell
by his foul, noisesome din.

So in Winter… this Winter…

I’m doing him in.

In Spring-time, when the grass grows new,
the silence is like dew.
Something makes the flowers grow more bright:
roses — deep, blood red;
daisies — pure, bone white.

Children wake to the first, warm rays
of sunshine as the lengthening day
extends her hand as if to say,
"Thank you. Thank you.
Now… Go play."