On Saturday afternoons in October
When Arcturus aligns with Mars
The giant industrial leaf blowers of Sodom
Slink out of their creepy holes and hollows.
Sniffing the wind and each other
They attach themselves to the backs of resigned Latinos
And begin their afternoon sonata.
Crawling over the scraps of land
Where no thing but hide and bone will grow,
Feeding on each other’s exhaust
And singing the songs of their people,
They swarm over the leavings of trees,
Moving them from one place to another
So their brethren may move them back.
They are charitable in that way.
On high feast days when the blood moon is due to rise
They will feed into the early evening returning only to hang
From their ringed and horny toes in their darkened sheds
When the brooding moon calls them home.
If Emily Dickinson were alive
Looking down from her upper room
And her stone valves of attention were forced open once more
It is the leaf blowers and the leaf blowers alone
that could achieve her raising.
Just as they alone have the power to seal me
In my Saturday afternoon
Staring-out-of the-front-window house of frustration.
Yet like seventeen year cicadas and county road workers,
On all but their high holy days, they will return precisely on time
To hibernate in their sleazy dens, releasing me to my normal plane
Of weary yet wide eyed wonder.