day NINE HUNDRED and SIXTY FIVE

the leafblower

nights without hope these days

nights we descend into the darkness

find solace only in the bottle

and he is blowing leaves across the street

with the sun down on defeated brooklyn

the whirling sound, the echo chamber of noise

the rich townhouses across the street

that stand in such contrast to my crumbling building

i stop mid-argument with my wife

slam down the tumbler of double vodka number two

and tell her someone has gotta do something

about these privileged bastards

before i know it i’m wobbling across the avenue

half-dressed, half-drunk

waving my hands like the neighborhood lunatic

catching him in silhouette

wondering if he’s the one whose always buzz-sawing

or the guy who yells at delivery men

when they idle in front of his narrowly carved driveway

or is it the asshole whose alarm goes off all-day every christmas eve

because he takes the family off to some resort in mexico

but i’m met with a small brown man

leafblower at his side like a riffle

cigarette hanging out of his mouth

what the fuck? i ask him over the cacophony

because i’ve come too far to stop now

i wave my arms as if he doesn’t know the night

as if he’s not working in it

while i, done with my day, happily pour poison on my liver

he shrugs and shuts the machine off

we stand there like enemy combatants

arguing over our particular situations

his patron looking out their wide window from time to time

until he finally says, look, it’s a job, man

like i should understand this but i don’t

because something has been lost for me

in the years of sitting on the couch

contemplating no one else’s malaise but my own

there’s nothing to do but slink across the avenue

exchanging finger gestures at speeding cars

and ecological warnings at that wide window

stark counsel that my own government doesn’t even care about

he goes back to leafblowing under the hidden super-moon

i go back to the couch, my wife

and the inevitability of double vodka number three

thinking about nights of promise

nights we could ascend into the light

then i get up again and go back out into the evening

stumble across the avenue with my hands in the air

like i’ve surrendered

as he shuts the machine off and puts it down

standing there with one fist balled for combat

the other hand open like a gesture of kindness

waiting on me to decide

how best to apologize.

--John Grochalski