6:30 in this field
on either end is
like, green. both sides
light just barely there
an amber wide yawn of sky of
worn velcro holding
together a jacket,
once prized, meant for
other fancy outdoor stuff,
not work.
your father gave you this place,
well, not gave, you got it
when he gave way and
you have failed this place.
you buy new equipment and leave
the old to molder
under pole barn cover
which leaks through graying
1x10 pine roof decking
and above that, rusted,
galvanized sheets.
you fix almost nothing.
but women love the shit
out of you and they visit often
and you have two children
by two of them and those
two have cost you more
than any machine
and you don't mean money
and you are happy to pay.
i love you, this farm says.
wait, this farm speaks with you?
or is this a ranch and does it
speak to you?
no beefers have names,
there is not a single
organic anything.
your clothing is street.
you are 1/10th through an
electrician's apprenticeship
and you drink half a case
of low alcohol shit beer everyday.
6:30 in this field on the far
end of the day you sit, knees down
first, on your ass and fully prone
in three moves. september dew grass
cool on the backs of your arms
and you think of your children,
the busted tailgate handle
on your f150 and you begin
to name some cows.
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