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Poem 5, June 5
Hot, humid Saturday
For two hours yesterday,
I cleaned the gutter
in front of your house.
You were not in the house.
I cannot begin to say
how unpleasant the day was.
How unbearably hot it was,
& miserable in every way,
me scooping decaying organic loam
like human waste from an outhouse.
How I would have traded the job for a fish gutter’s
chore in those moments, but when a wren
flew from your hanging flowerpot
& scolded me, I smiled a smile
meant only for me.
When a red wasp darted at me,
I did not think. I let my rile
control my action, my swat,
missed;
it did not.