It loomed dark inside so I ventured out.
The snowstorm left us powerless.
I can barely lift my shovel in protest
As the bobcat steamrolls ahead.
Stop trudging over my work!
But the driver could care less.
He is paid an hourly rate.
My daughter thinks he is cool,
Or his vehicle is,
The yellow throne upon which he
Reigns, above it all.
Mighty, and high,
Traversing ice and branches and
He plows through moments frosted over,
Ones I cannot retrieve
No matter how hard I dig in.
I pick through the remnants of the damage exacted.
I claw at what melts...
And come up with this.
Copyright © Irene Hammer-McLaughlin