Yard Work, Or, Below the Surface

The shovel, lean and dull,

propped against the brick, a cold

steel accusation.

My landlord, bless his heart,

said 'drainage issue.'

Said 'coaxing.'

Said it with a smile,

the kind that implies

you'll be doing the dirty work.

And it’s true, I suppose,

this backed-up thing.

This fear of digging.

Of turning earth,

of what might come to light.

A root? A pipe burst?

A rat's nest?

Or just—

more dirt.

Just the same old mess,

but wetter,

and closer to the surface.

The handle, still slick

from yesterday's rain,

feels like a cold hand

pressing down.

I haven't picked it up.

Not yet. I keep looking

at the window,

at the sky.

As if a storm

might solve it,

wash it all away.

Or just make it worse.