After Seeing a Shovel Staked Upright in the Snow

Muffed and muffled, he plows into the night’s white. 
Yes, he fully understands how men his age collapse 
while shoveling driveways buried by snow as heavy 
and damp as sodden sweaters, how their old hearts,
singed engines, stop drubbing. His wife understood
this first, which is why he’s forbidden from straying 
beyond their cocoon once the fall of flakes begins. 

It’s nearing dawn now, though it’s still sturdily night.
More has fallen since day’s last light. Duty beckons 
him deep into the bright dark. Up to his knees, he scoops
and tosses, clearing the way. Already, rest is required 
to slow the hammer blows. Behind him: six feet cleared 
clean, just wide enough to lie upon. Into the mound 
he’s made, he stakes his shovel, rigid as a gibbet post.

KEVIN GRAUKE

Kevin Grauke has published poems in The Threepenny Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Minnesota Review, Ninth Letter, and The Louisville Review, among other publications. He is the author of the short-story collections Shadows of Men and West of Destry. A third short-story collection, Bullies & Cowards, is forthcoming from Cornerstone Press in late 2026. He teaches at La Salle University and lives in Philadelphia.