Shovel
The shovel stalks me
rocking forward left-right
on its blade.
I wear disguises, dodge
into doorways. Sometimes shovel passes,
sometimes waits.
I hire clippers, rake, and fork
to spy on shovel.
They report nothing.
I suspect shovel wants to whack me—
one hard blow to my occiput.
I’m jealous of those who plant daffodils.
My shovel is sinister,
rusty,
persistent.
On rainy nights, I dream
shovel deepens my grave.
My dream fork says dig.