Richard K. OSTRANDER

SON OF SISYPHUS

After all the circles in your inferno
all the accusations before the docket
the nails through the wrist
the droughts of vinegar and arsenic
"For the public good"
the first stone thrown a thousand times
in the batting cage of our home
it was I; I was the son of Sisyphus.
The sons of waste said so.
It was me who kept the grass green.
With my garden hose, I kept the lawn alive.
I pulled the dandelions and weeds of fear
grown in your dark corners.
I always loved an angle
All those weeds I could pull
but once out they angled for those corners.
During the day I unshutterred
the windows for the light.
But at night in your angles
they grew anew and I was engulfed
my back against a thousand corners.
I waded in weeds, my garden hose a scythe.
I was the son of Sisyphus.
That's what the sons of waste said.

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