Whose roads these are I think I know.
His house is in the gated community, though.
He will not see me shoveling here,
my driveway buried in the snow.
My little boys must think it queer,
to shovel without a snow plow near.
Between the curb and sidewalk gray,
the coldest evening of the year.
They give their kid snow shovels a shake,
to ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the scrape,
of vigilante plows and rakes.
The deficit’s scary, dark and deep,
but I have tax payments to keep.
And tons to shovel before I sleep.
And tons to shovel before i sleep.
Credit to one of my favorite poets for inspiring this.