Posted on: February 19, 2021 Posted by: vudfc Comments: 0

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.


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