Chores | Maxine Kumin
All day heās shoveled green pine sawdust
out of the trailer truck into the chute.
From time to time heās clambered down to even
the pile. Now his hair is frosted with sawdust.
Little rivers of sawdust pour out of his boots.
I hope in the afterlife thereās none of this stuff
he says, stripping nude in the late September sun
while I broom off his jeans, his sweater flocked
with granules, his immersed-in-sawdust socks.
I hope thereās no bedding, no stalls, no barn
no more repairs to the paddock gate the horses
burst through when snow avalanches off the roof.
Although the old broodmare, our first foal, is his,
horses, heās fond of saying, make divorces.
Fifty years married, heās safely facetious.
No garden pump thatās airbound, no window a grouse
flies into and shatters, no ancient tractorās
intractable problem with carburetor
ignition or piston, no mowers and no chain saws
that refuse to start, or start, misfire and quit.
But after a Bloody Mary on the terrace
already frost-heaved despite our heroic efforts
to level the bricks a few years back, he says
letās walk up to the field and catch the sunset
and off we go, a couple of aging fools.
I hope, he says, on the other side thereās a lot
less work, but just in case Iām bringing tools.
ā½
