A Trundle of Dead Leaves

Yardwork, and preparation against negative perceptions about my external life, when my inner life is so different.

A trundle of dead leaves

   in a wheelbarrow.

A clean, orderly back yard.

The rake-paws freshshshshshshshshsh in the dirt

To prove I'm not as broken

              as my visitors might think.

Halfway through the day,

breathing alcohol fumes,

      trundling leaves,

           emptying them in the woods,

You'd think I'd trundle back

      with an empty wheelbarrow.

But it was full when I parked it,

      cradling my dead leaves of perception

          in its rust-cratered bucket,

when I sat down to write this poem.

Author's Note

This might be another poem like 'sailboats', now that I tghink of it. I mean to say I'm unsure about it, but I like it personally. Need input, it's meant to be brief, but to give a glimpse of what goes on oinside while doing mundane daily tasks to try to keep up appearances.

Reviews

[KAOlmsted]

I like it, too. We all do this; keep up appearances when all we really want to do is curl up into a tight little ball and rock ourselves into oblivion with whatever brain-number is on hand...I give you props for getting the leaves as far as the woods.