A Curse upon Leaf Blowers and the Men who Love Them
In all their zeal for smoke and rattle,
the Futurists never envisioned your leaf blowers
pounding the geometry of row houses.
Yesterday, I cast a spell to charm
the throatwhistlers’ roar
to silence if not wonder,
but once more this morning I hear
If not a charm, a curse then:
To all who handle leaf blowers,
may dust enter your eyes
in ounces not in motes.
May you blast away wanted objects,
family photos, bills of medium denomination,
W-9 forms, eyeglass prescriptions,
cards addressed to grandmothers and elderly aunts.
May the allied evil of lawn trimmers
flay your calves like the self-scourges
of an ascetic monk. May humus turn to ashes,
your golf shorts to sackcloth. May the starter
cord wrap around your neck in dreams.
May your dinner reek of gasoline.
May you some day learn
the meaning of rake.