Yard Debris Only

My hands rub against the bamboo rake,
forming piles and blisters,
while wind-chapped skin and
a hangnail bitten too far down
draw blood.
The smell of a dampened October afternoon
averts me to childhood and being hit
with a soccer ball in my venous chubby thigh.
While the chilled breeze of early November
reminds me to leave the window open
and not wear socks to bed
so I may enjoy the cold sheets.
I wonder about the green sweatshirt
I used to wear as a young boy
and why I chose to chew holes in the sleeves
to stick my thumbs through.
Holes larger than one left by a rusty nail
in just the right spot
so it disables wear for occasions
outside yard work.
I watch the leaves fall in peanut brittle colors
slow motion to the lawn.
The crumbling of dried leaves
under fast moving cars on Main Avenue
remind me of how quickly the workweek will pass.
And I will be here another weekend
because Mr. Burnstein is too lazy a neighbor
to care about the leaves being blown
from his yard to mine.