The blowers
The blowers are invading. Their back pack machines screaming to make humans safe from ever having to walk on leaves - they push the debris to the edges of the paths we tread, forgotten in the corners of our eyes. I can’t stand their howling. I can’t stand my paths laid bare as if nothing has ever happened there. Rent is due, I am out of money, my van won’t start. I am wandering alone through the grocery. It is early so the shelves have been recently stocked, everything is flush, labels out. There is something nice about it - comforting. Like maybe everything in the world can be OK. That all things can perhaps be put back together. I push a can off its perch. It falls into the empty space behind the clean façade leaving a hole like a face with a knocked-out tooth. What chance do we really have when things can so easily fall apart. Everything is not OK. No matter how clean you scrape the wounds