On this late December morning,
cold as a walk-in freezer, snow’s
falling like white feathers, blanketing
The elderly man, surviving on
a meager government pension,
Bundled in a worn out parka,
Woolen cap, leather gloves,
rubber boots,Knee-deep in snow,
Shovels the drive for an hour,
piling the snow into mountains.
A task that’s become an emblem,
And symbol of his winter living
For the past fifty fifty-five years.
After the chore’s completed,
Feeling exhausted, he returns
The shovel, a Christmas gift
from his deceased wife,
who passed on a decade ago,
To the garage, retreats to his warm
bungalow, Sips hot coffee, gazes
out the living room window, at the
unrelenting snow falling,
realizes the drive must be shoveled
Again, when the storm subsides.
The elderly man catches sight of the young
upper crust neighbor, across the street,
quickly clearing his two car drive
with a gas powered snow blower,
a christmas gift from his pregnant wife.
The elderly man imagines possessing
sufficient cash In his savings account
To purchase this modern comfort of Winter.
Believes there’s a strong possibility
He would enjoy the snow if he
Wasn’t forced to clear the drive with a shovel.