He isn’t quite a eunuch but that’s
what he calls himself, this old
two-beat codger on this spring
afternoon picking up the winter’s
crop of twigs and bark from the lawn
to make it “look nicer” and to supply
the house with kindling next winter
for himself or his heirs, meanwhile coughing
and gasping, cursing the pain in his back,
thinking always of the days when
each year after the run-off he was in
the woods with the early trout lilies
and violets and with his ax, saw,
and canthook, doing a man’s work
that has no connection with sex at all.
APRIL CLEAN-UP
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