Arms deep, filth-clad, toilet toil: working at The Ski Tahoe Resort.
Scrubbing this mess of spiders, disposing the cast off suppositories,
the tracks of geriatric indulgence.
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
at the end of a bad year. Trees begin
to outnumber houses. Rain turns to snow
as fields hang like paintings.
