Lawn Mower in the Snow

bless me, Father Luke
for I have sinned against suburbia
leaving our lawn mower naked in the snow
and no place to go
except down to the catshit moldy basement
to endure an icy hangover
all winter long
I'm afraid
to look at maybe puddles
pooled around the stoic machine
down there down there
that oldtimer coinage
for the carnival
the southern summer riot

Maybe if I had had the courtesy to anchor
the reaper under the maple the snowfall
may have been kinder
though I doubt it 'cause
the naked branches afforded no
shelter the leaves sulking yellow
until I used the Sears-bought Briggs & Stratton
to mulch the leaves just
a few weeks ago it was a miracle where
did the leaves escape to in the November dusk

Jason the Argue-not
up the street
what does he say about all this
he is mum presiding
over his abandoned patio furniture
from the sweltering garden party
six chairs empty waiting
for the Board of Bankruptcy and Emptiness
to convene to cancel all convention
mummified alabaster on white
a silent pantomime
waiting for the players to clink glasses
once again a toast
and tell mosquito stories
once again
I'd call that hope
a great white hope
spiked by a greeny stubbornness