Yard Work

by Peter Franklin

It was my father
who taught me how to rake leaves,
pick up all the trimmings...bear the burden of the clean up crew.

I actually had no choice...
for I was the go-to guy once dad did his halftime clear-cutting of the back yard.
I always knew the call would come...hey, give me a hand.

It was nice for a moment
to think that I had a choice...though he quickly disappeared to the grotto-comfort
of the worn green Naugahyde sofa in the family room...second half nearly underway. 

So I labored, sweated under the late afternoon sun, never thinking to tell him
that the hay fever made my eyes and nose and throat miserable.
But that would have accomplished nothing,

save for only prolonging the inevitable.
I bore it well, I think...
Much like my love for you.