cupid

Love at first sight is all well and good for the romance novel crowd.
Instead I subscribe the sight at first love.
And that leaves me, desperately trying to force affection for rumors of shadows.
All while cursing the air I displace.
I wouldn't recognize love if it used me for archery practice.

Labor

Few things are more satisfying

than cleaning a toilet well.

Brushing the rim of the bowl,

wiping down every alabaster surface.

Making sure the dried urine is removed

from the under the seat and hinges.

Dusting off the braided-metal supply hose

Reaching to keep the dark buildup between

the wall and tank in check.

There is also enjoyment to be had

on garbage day.

Hefting the gray plastic barrels

onto the big blue eighty-four F-150.

When the kids in the kitchen

fill a fifty gallon bin to the brim with slop,

I must grunt and strain to free

the ungainly brute from the cement

Into honeycombed, truck-bed alignment.

And to my delight in the evening fire,

I see a familiar maple log, with a knot

where a branch once was attached on which

I stood, tying a rope to guide the giant's fall,

on the edge of the back 40 field.

When the humidity met the chainsaw

met the trunk,

and they all baptized me in

sweat and sound and sawdust, Leaving rounds

which needed halving by the hand maul

before they could be raised to the splitter.