Home from a trip, three weeks on the road,
I note that my trees are loosening their load.
On the ground, the leaves are still few.
In the weeks ahead they'll come by the slew.
As I look at the many still perched overhead,
Thoughts of the coming battle fill me with dread.
For weeks we suburban heroes toil and flail.
Here's an heroic epic to mark our valiant tale.
The last leaves have fallen from their perches on high,
And litter the ground right up to his thigh.
In their legions and armies they boldly stack.
Small children and dogs have to turn back.
As he thinks of his wife it gives him goosebumps
She can't walk around with leaves on her pumps!
He rattles the heavens with a mighty cry.
“If you weren’t already dead, now you would die!”
He straps on his vacuum, the dreaded El Toro.
(Which he had to buy since he couldn’t borrow.)
He falls upon them from hillock to gulch
And grinds the quivering foe to a powdery mulch.
Like the heroes of old he absorbs all his licks,
Leaf dust up the nose and bites from the ticks.
As he lays about him, he considers his shoe.
Oh, mighty Zeus! He’s stepped in dog’s pooh!
He wonders if Caesar, slaughtering the Vandal,
Had to stop to clean dog shit off of his sandal.
For weeks and weeks the grim battle roils
On and on the suburban Hercules toils.
At missing his football and baseball, he curses.
He is caught in an epic with too many verses.
As the Aeolian blast delivers the neighbors' pile,
“I’ll bet they’ll miss their cat,” he says with a smile.
The bags of the fallen line the drive.
Oak, maple, cherry, none made it alive.
He shoulders El Toro and surveys the field.
He is glad he fought on and never did yield.
His chest swells with pride like mighty El Cid
Then his wife whispers: “Next year, hire a kid.”