The poets would tell you that the autumns leaves dance
Playful eddies in the autumn wind.
The autumn leaves, of red and gold drifting every so musically
In reality, they sit, sodden, on the grass
That you forgot to mow one last time
And now the rake drags resentfully through the mess
Always, even though it’s posted,
Someone leaves their car parked, right in front of your house
on the day that the street cleaner comes
He leaves a large loop of unswept leaves under the scofflaw
Glaring at you, fitfully raking as he drives by.
You want to chase him so he knows it’s not your car
Like Dylan’s poetic snow, the leaves are not only shaken
In rain washed buckets off the trees,
But come shawling up out of the ground
drifting and piling and sticking to your boots
where you will trail them into your house
where you will have to rake them up, inside your house.
The ones that fall to the roof stick in the gutters
Where they’ll sit until you pull out the treacherous ladder
Not quite tall enough, and, standing on the sticker that says
Do not stand on this step
Reach over your head to pull out the sodden mass,
Thinking, “this is how I die.”