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POETRY
13
It’s the grass-cutter that calls
Me out in the late days of July. It’s
The lawnmower, the weed-wacker,
Telling me I should be on my feet.
I know I should be outside. Soon,
I know, the year will belong to the Northern poets,
to Dickinson, Frost, Poe, and I
Will be hibernating somewhere
In southern Ohio.