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.
