The plow sits at the bottom of the street,
its wedge-face expressionless and waiting,
out of my sight.
I, gloved and overcoated, shovel heaps of snow into dunes
that bestride my driveway like pillars of Hercules.
My task complete, I view the opening of the way
with satisfaction.
Turning to go, to reward myself
with the warmth and comfort of the house,
I hear the distant rumble of the plow starting up,
then louder and closer,
roaring up the street,
pushing drifts aside,
opening the way behind it,
Until, with one long, indifferent thrust,
it walls me in again.
The man in the machine does not even wave as he passes.
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