Shoveling the Trampoline
Who does this? is my first
thought.
My second, how cold
IS it out here?
I am rescuing my son’s summer
pastime and therapy
tool—
proprioceptive or vestibular sensory
input? I can never remember which—
from the weight of three day’s snow.
The center is sagging, stretching
and will give
out
if I do not. I am not
strong enough to lift
shovelfuls up
and over
the top
of the protective
enclosure.
Each scoop must be
shoved through the entrance,
an unzipped hole more narrow than my blade.
Soon, I am not thinking at all,
one with the shovel, heaving
each clump into a growing pile below,
careful not to scrape
bottom
and tear fragile,
frozen nylon.
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania and is working on her first
(several) poetry collections and an autobiographical work on raising a child
with Autsim. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection,
Convergence, Ascent Aspiration, Deadsnakes, The Rainbow
Rose and other online
and print journals and is forthcoming in Inclement, Poetry Quarterly
and Bluestem.
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