Jennifer MacPherson

What Happens In September

Half the leaves
lose their quarrel
with frost and hang
like yellow rags.

Fathers oil their rakes,
foresee the deluge
of shapes, their bent
backs’ slow ache

as sons oil skates,
apples rounding
where pumpkins hallo
from low vines.

While limber hands
ready whack of pigskin,
teachers search under beds
for briefcases, sharpen pencils

into lasers. Retired teachers
find their eyes turn red
in the cooler weather
and they sleep like snails.