I watched him struggle with the sea
I was nine-tenths of the way through shoveling my mother's driveway before it occurred to me that the flat-bladed gardening implement which I had been using to rowel up the frozen underlayer of slush from which the shovel just skidded off—it reminded me of a whaler's cutting spade—was conceivably some kind of hoe. I cannot tell if this means I will never have to settle my debts with Poseidon or if I have just incurred Demeter's eternal disappointment.

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Thank you! Yes. It is something I am very proud of. I wrote that poem because of it.