|I can't picture me a farmer.|
I'm watching death sow in the fields
as I pity him
from the foyer of his brown cottage
moist with eucalyptus smells.
What kind of thoughts must trail through there
There's nothing to achieve...
although its the same as theres nothing to achieve
by making it big
or making it small
Death made its point.
It's but a fight or a flight with no outcome.
He doesnt know how to fight he said
he's the passive type
and in-regards to flying,
he doesn't like the thought of leaving the soil unturned.
It has one syllable,
the rake he used to pile the warm maple leafs,
and a broken wing on its left side.
A shining cellophane pianist arm stuck his fist up from the pile
and as he sunk back in
you could sense
he regreted that he didn't stick a finger up.
He'd grunt a disgruntle huff
if you compare him to a virus
He's got a ego like god
even though all he does day in and out
is work on his farm.
(comment on this poem)