Old Bob, now: he didn’t just shovel snow
like the rest of us; he’d sculpt it.
Oh, he’d clear the driveway, walk, of course;
but it was what he did with the snow:

shoveling was just a process of gathering
materials for his way of remembering.
The driveway could be long clear, but Bob
would still be working on the mound,

shaping it into a breast or shoulder.
You could walk through the neigbourhood
spot a throat here, a lovely smooth back there,
a knee, thigh—all much bigger than she.

Course, she was long gone: died in that
awful accident out on the fifth concession.
He was driving: snootful; missed Dead
Man’s Curve; lay beside her half dead
while she bled out: glass cuts. Summer
he whittles.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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