Election eve,
and leaf by leaf
it’s all coming down
outside. Next door
they’re raking leaves
into piles before
putting them
into the street for
collection, with a scratch
upon scratch of
metal teeth on 
worn asphalt and hard 
brush of the same
sweeping over
thin lawn: sounds
of ending and
of resignation to 
the hard work of 
coming winter. 

As for me, laboring
over a difficult task
indoors, stopping
to finish this poem 
surreptitiously, as if
someone was 
hovering over my shoulder?
I heard somewhere
that raking is bad
for the lawn and 
right or wrong, that suits me
fine. Permission to keep my head
in the sand of this work
a little longer. Living
according to
acceptable facts. Winter’s 
looming, getting here
maybe as early
as tomorrow night. I
will stay right here
for as long as I can
and do nothing urgently
needed, except 
perhaps this poem
is what is needed,
I tell myself
this is the most vital work
of the moment
even as we are buried,
leaf by leaf,
in the Fall.