The Joneses
A Poem in Epic Style
By pm gordon
The drive, the drive, blanketed so
Covered deeply in knee-depth snow
A time will come to bend weary back
And with useless shovel go forth on attack
You know it will take hours or more
You know it will punish pale, flabby core
You’ll get a cold, mucus will run
Not one single part of this will be fun
Plus once you are finished with toil unending
The Sky, fresh snow, She will be sending
From window you’ll watch with horror anew
As the white powder menace begins to accrue
But, lo!, what’s this! Salvation is near
Lo, what’s this! Deliverance appear
The man bundled across the way
A hero shining like the Sun of May
He pulls out a device, a beautiful steed
It is precisely the fix for this time of need
This man becomes a worthy hope sower
This man possesses Excalibur: a snowblower
He pushes the snow to and fro
Effortless, brilliant, apropos!
I wave to him, with obvious plead
I beckon him in dire time of need.
He smiles at me with knowing stare
He sees my plight, knows my care
He finishes his drive in easy stride
Then he turns, doffs cap, and goes inside
I stare, cold; dead where I stand
Feeling sweat freeze forth from every gland
I wonder at how being this old
I could, this day, feel a new cold
He chilled my bones, my heart, my mind
He kindled fire: cruel and unkind
I saw him inside, warm and fresh
And felt the shovel against gloved mesh
I knew then what I needed to do
And a maniac strength began to brew
I shoveled and shoveled and shoveled some more
I piled it all in his drive and in front of his door
I went from house to house gathering more
Work became pleasure, formerly chore
I worked for minutes, for hours, for days
I shoveled and shoveled: maniacal, crazed
Eventually my job had expired
Every flake of snow had been acquired
It towered and rested in this man’s drive
The drifts at heights to bury alive
I returned inside with gleeful heart
When out he crawled, with obvious start
He looked at me and with odious smirk
And ignited blower and started to work
What had taken me hours and years off my life
He entered into with no signs of strife
He plowed here and he plowed there
His blower and he, a day at the fair
In minutes, mere seconds, his task was complete
And in snow throne he had taken a seat
He waved his hand to bid me adieu
I was Napoleon; this: my Waterloo
I bowed my head, for I was beat
Worn shoes, throbbing back, signs o’ my defeat
I sat, took phone; mind, body, soul all entwine
And began to shop for snowblowers online.