for what I hope is the last time

until spring, I remember the house at the bottom

of Canal Street, its back porch sinking

into a kingdom of tall weeds

where a junker rested on blocks,

and Mr. Kluhan slouched in a moldy chair

drinking from a quart bottle of Schmidt’s

while whittling a small world

of birds, animals and men.

In a good mood he’d offer one

to a kid who ventured close

enough to watch him, the strange one

our parents used as a warning

whenever we complained

at having to brush our teeth,

tie our laces, recite our prayers, any

of the thousand small tasks

that shape a life, like this mowing,

this endless mowing.