Member Poem

The shovel stalks me
rocking forward left-right
on its blade, persistent.

I wear disguises
and dodge into doorways.
Sometimes shovel passes,
sometimes waits.

I hire clippers, rake, and fork
to spy on shovel.
They report nothing.

I suspect shovel wants to kill me
with one hard whack on my occiput.

I’m jealous of those who use shovels
to plant daffodils.

My shovel is sinister,
rusty, patient.

On rainy nights, I dream
shovel deepens my grave.
My dream fork says dig.

Published in Star*Line