Reclinerland Follow

every day he slaves to save rue lane in gallway. potholes filled with gravel milled from pearls.

he hacks the brambles back way out of harm's way and clips the budding tips of whipporwills.

he slams his hammer down upon the oak roots whose sweeping tendrils creep up through the mud.

and stamping on the ground with tattered old boots, he smooths the rocky road with mighty thuds.

'twas on the blackest night in late october, his lover's car came ripping down rue lane. her driver, true to form, being far from sober, plowed the car head first into a passing train.

now as he weeps, he sweeps the twigs and fig leaves that gather up and scatter in the lane. he's making sure the road is clear of debris for nightly when his lass floats past on old rue lane.