Down the road to the new farm
a busted Ford truck in the ditch
and above it a circling of birds.
The red rusted frame is a backdrop
for a picture we’ll never take—
the geese, those vulture imposters
gray and swooping in pairs, eyeing
the heap—the wreck finally even
an eyesore for them. When we
approach, they stream slovenly away
to the new farm, our shoes
dusting up the dry, the old rutted road
a shortcut to the new farm.
Our walking and summer sweat
are reasons for mosquitoes, flying
unafraid—their kamikaze missions.
One wasp, wings humming up
the drum, cuts its way through and finds
its airstrip on your bare shoulder.
Luckily fingers were built
for flicking. We walk on, saving
our breath for the new farm.
A crash and suddenly rain, the edge
of today’s storm pushing past
the slow hills, the sun
a thing to cower from. At the last
curve before the new farm, a dog
is dying. It’s not too late to pick
his busted body up, to carry what blood
he has against my chest.
There is no hastening in our step.
Ahead the dust is swirling
around the new farm. The workmen
are out of some painting—their blue jeans
tight and creased, their white shirts
so bright they might just catch fire.
Even the hats are clean at the new farm.
We deliver the dead dog
to the best-dressed-man
and he turns in disgust when he sees us.
Something muffled escapes under
your breath, a quiet hate or pride
falling from your mouth.
A few of the men come at us as if
they were shooing birds.
The best-dressed-man picks out
my gaze, my grimace, my grimy
ideas that he’s certain are good
for nothing. He pulls his gun
and places it harmlessly at his side.
He is not bent on murder, and means
no harm, just as we are not
meant there. Grandfather must have done
some talking some years before.
His voice is silent now, but his will
still echoes in what was built here.
The best-dressed-man plays
his game of chance with a dead man
over which is the true martyr
and it is only for the slow, swarming
and constantly growing seasons
to decide now. The best-dressed-man
places the gun in his holster, grunts
and smirks as he turns away.
He has won, but the spoils are shady.
Our long walk back begins, our new
dead dog a passenger, a hostage.
Where the weeds meet the old Ford
we stop and fit our bodies in its bed.
We say nothing. The dog is a witness.
Stars emerge from their own pick-up trucks
and show themselves. We’re steeped
in the blood of the dog, wind smooth
and running these fields, our home
up there in the balance. Night becomes
early morning. We leave the truck
holding the dog. I silently wonder
if there is something we could have done.
Finally we find our way and our feet
hit the old road away from the new farm.
It seems like one of us should
say something, but the wind, in every
trite way possible, blows up loudly
around us. The mosquitoes are ferocious
at the splintered gate, and suddenly
I come to, alert and ready
for anything, like he would have been
all those years ago in that horrible war.
My words are sharp and quick:
“Here we go again, alive and sinning—
blindly searching for reasons
where only relativity makes any sense.”
There are 234 days remaining in Bush's presidency.
