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Barnyard (sheltered daughter of the old trucking dynasty)

Barnyard (sheltered daughter of the old trucking dynasty)

A country road during sunrise


I visit the local farm,
Dancing, tramping around
Large tractor tires—
Reminds me of honking the horn
Of an eighteen wheeler
In my father’s truck yard,
I have his yellowed smile
And my mother’s squinting eyes,
Watching the pigs scarf down
The slop in a rusted steel trough.
Grazing in a worn-down pen
Filled with toys for my enrichment,
Canned corn and jellies on thanksgiving,
I’m milked of all language
And rotted to kefir—call it culture.
I, like the petting zoo goats,
Have no natural habitat—
But their enclosure doesn’t pretend,
The steel gates clank, shameless,
Unlike identical suburban houses,
Their rich hardwood
Smothered by beige carpets,
And above ground pools
Salting the earth to barren backyards
With perfect square property lines
And green lawns chewed by mowers.
Oh, what a battered colony,
And I some carpenter ant
Hollowing plywood to a bungalow,
Wishing I were caked in sun-dried mud
Or a prize gourd at a farmer’s market,
But the closest thing I know to fauna
Is honey sold in a glass bottle.


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