by Beth Bayley
The snowplow in summer is a tragic thing,
unable to fulfill its purpose,
unhooked from the truck and left to rust and dust
and maybe shelter some mice.
In the winter, its gimlet eye and yawing jaw save the day,
the sound of it scraping a driveway super-heroic.
But in the summer, it’s a hibernating beast,
snoring in the heat and dreaming of the evening
when it can wake up and spend a whole cocoa-flavored night
rescuing families and making the streets safe for all.
Category: Featured, Poetry