Today's poem is by James Galvin

Thanksgiving on the Line

The Weatherman said, "Sunny statewide."
The Weatherman lied.
The Medicine Bow grated snow down
Without even a storm to work with.
The mountains enshrouded themselves in their task.
Or was it their cast?
Or why not just say
The sun spun itselflike a grindstone,
And steel dust fell from a deep blue sky?
Who worked the treadle?
Who cut and trued the gritstone wheel?
I don't know about any of it.
Never any accumulation.

I know a wheel doesn't turn by itself.
My second guess is the wicked stepmother,
Having spanked the only child with a stick of firewood,
Swept the spilled sugar
Away but not up.
By and large,
I don't know about any of it.
I don't even have an opinion.
I am simply not familiar.
I'm just sawing off another day to length.
Sawdust drifts over my boots.
When a wind comes up
It's like cockroaches when the lights come on: Exeunt.
It should be winter, but the worst fire season ever still lingers.
Note to Smokey: Only forest fires can prevent forest fires.
The sawyer is gizzened.
The cast decitizenized.
To be a citizen, you need a storm to work with.

Copyright © 2016 James Galvin All rights reserved
from Everything We Always Knew Was True
Copper Canyon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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