The Chainsaw

It sits on the ground Running, but not cutting Ready for gutting Violent with sound. It reminds me of a race-horse Jittery in the gate Looking much like fate And strong in the force. I imagine that I see In its calculating eyes We cannot realize The destruction it would bring Were we to let it loose Flip the cutting switch Relieve its cutting itch And begin its life abuse. It would start with the yard In front of the house Dipping in and out No substance too hard. All the bushes in between All the trees, any flowers In less than an hour Never again to be seen. Then goes the door And the sink a little later Even the refrigerator Would fall to the cutting boar. In a few days, very few indeed The city, the state, the country Perhaps the world some day It'd do no good to plead. It's roaring to go To be set free To slice and puree Please, Father, say no. The sigh of relief As he turns it off And now I can scoff At its un-chopped grief.