Rebekah Simpson Poet I do not know?

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.

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