After the spring thaw when the damn snow there melted, left<\/p>\n
behind \u00a0brittle etchings in dirt, the time came for me to move,<\/p>\n
carry the last hay bale to the barn, scratch the goat, feel her<\/p>\n
dry bag sag low. Time came for me to let the dog free,<\/p>\n
ease her collar over her scrawny neck, give her room<\/p>\n
for one last drink from the dented aluminum bowl. Time to<\/p>\n
gather my clothes in the burlap sack. Take my spoon,<\/p>\n
half a jug of whiskey, the fine lace tablecloth, white faded to<\/p>\n
ivory with just a few holes. Turn the latch, greet the thin<\/p>\n
jittering day. Birds, like torn leaves, kick song in the bush.<\/p>\n
Kind of like this morning\u2019s a bad draft. Too many<\/p>\n
loose vowels and crossed off lines. Too many bitter<\/p>\n
moments like off-kilter rhymes. I step in the dust-mottled yard,<\/p>\n
notice the black sprawl, piles of wood ashes. Makes me think<\/p>\n
of the days when I had a little smoke house out front,<\/p>\n
plenty of ham, bacon, tied with twine, and me always with<\/p>\n
quick piles of green apple boughs to keep the burn going.<\/p>\n
Right now don\u2019t mean much. Right now I think I should have<\/p>\n
sold it all in one punch. \u00a0Not that anyone would come looking.<\/p>\n
Too far out. Roads like black scrawl. No electricity. No water<\/p>\n
unless you use the pump. Too far gone now. \u00a0Never had many<\/p>\n
visitors, except maybe when I had those chickens. \u00a0Don\u2019t know<\/p>\n
why I sold them. \u00a0Bright little bunch. \u00a0Claws that made little<\/p>\n
x\u2019s in the ground, hunting bugs. That was their life — laying<\/p>\n
you eggs, spending the rest of their time digging for insects,<\/p>\n
zig-zagging some crazy path. No sense to it. None.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Published in:<\/p>\n
Comstock Review\u00a0<\/em>(fall\/winter 2013)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" After the spring thaw when the damn snow there melted, left behind \u00a0brittle etchings in dirt, the time came for me to move, carry the last hay bale to the barn, scratch the goat, feel her dry bag sag low. Time came for me to let the dog free, ease her collar over her scrawny … <\/p>\n