for what I hope is the last time
until spring, I remember the house at the bottom
of Canal Street, its back porch sinking
into a kingdom of tall weeds
where a junker rested on blocks,
and Mr. Kluhan slouched in a moldy chair
drinking from a quart bottle of Schmidt’s
while whittling a small world
of birds, animals and men.
In a good mood he’d offer one
to a kid who ventured close
enough to watch him, the strange one
our parents used as a warning
whenever we complained
at having to brush our teeth,
tie our laces, recite our prayers, any
of the thousand small tasks
that shape a life, like this mowing,
this endless mowing.