The Sirens of Fall
The Sirens of Fall
Shall I continue to be what I wish
The fuel injected Backpack Leaf Blower
No, I think not.
For when the glorious calm of September afternoons,
Or the soft October air is stabbed
By a thousand home owner Leaf Blowers—
That gnashing, high pitched whine,
The sirens of fall—
Is it the Leaf Blower
Or the Leaf Blower Operator
Ripping autumn’s serenity to shreds?
This I do know:
I could hear a falling leaf tick to the turf
Before the operator fingered the ignition switch
Yes, I call for background checks.
Walden as required reading.
A class on “The Rake” and its suggested uses.
Perhaps a license after some study on the subjects of
Bad country music at public gatherings,
Squatting in the passing lane,
Telemarketing at dinner time,
Cell phone addiction over lunch date,
The failure to recognize that others exist,
And their preventative measures.
Can’t you scent the nose stinging petrol
Wafting over the alley fence?
See how he wears the comfortable harness.
Eye and ear protection
Protecting himself from himself.
Tube in hand aiming a steady stream.
The flavor of dust.
Listen as he cleaves through the yard, the street,
His weapon shrieking “Freeeeeedom!”
Legions of crimson, orange and yellow tumbling away in fear.
Chopped to pieces by his fury.
He cries out (though you can’t hear him),
“Here you shall not fall, Fall.”
The field strewn with severed laminas.
Petioles cut from the lateral veins.
Or rather, a salad shooter massacre.
And at two hundred and fifty one miles per hour air velocity,
Why the fuck not?
It’s a hand held hurricane.
A nostril of God farmer blowing.
The operator must imagine himself a conqueror—
After all, who would question his motive?
His dedication to a yard uncluttered?
Some neighbors may celebrate him
For there is no trace
Of the season
To be seen.
The colors removed.
Blown and bagged
But but for me
His dream damning frequency
Shatters these thoughtful days.
He clears the path for winter—
Now nearer than before.
mbk, October 2015