Breaking Roots

the sewer clean-out 

backed up, the unholy flood

of waste, hair, soap, 

shit-logged sails, and snot gurgles

like a Hieronymous Bosch nightmare baptism 

it flushes ants down the ravine, I should dig

for the break, to see what knotted fist 

of juniper roots chokes the line 

but my only shovel 

is rusted and supple, 

my grandpa’s shovel 

on mornings like this, he would microwave 

already scalding coffee, slip into his overalls 

like he was reclaiming his one true skin 

wrench his hands 

into diesel scented gloves

with a whistle, he would declare the work 

to be done and start digging, today 

I’m just standing here, 

barely breaking ground 

I watch ants wonder what ant god 

abandoned them, my son still

asleep on the couch, the weed 

resin nestled in his cold pipe   

the morning’s coolness succumbs 

to the encroaching heat, I close my eyes  

visualizing the path

 

from the garage to the well house

and the shelf that held

an old Foldger’s coffee tin 

half empty of crystalline

root killer

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Wednesday Poetry Prompts 530: "where you are"