(by Daniel R. Jones)
Just out the door is a stream that spills downward
into a brass bowl of a pond.
It serves as home to scores of bluegills,
fit for frying, if you can catch and clean as many.
And if you were to head due west
two and three-quarter miles,
you’d find a farmer leaning against his split rail fence,
looking over some fifty head of cattle.
Nearby, his son is turning in from mucking the stalls.
He stands barefoot on the grass,
clapping the heels of his work boots together,
deriving strange satisfaction with each dirt clod he loosens.
If you could climb in the cockpit of a crop duster,
southern Indiana would spread out beneath you like a quilt,
with patchwork fields every shade
of gold and green and brown.
But if any of this is true, I am oblivious to it.
My day was made of spent toner cartridges,
the taste of no. 9 commercial envelopes,
and flickering, fluorescent light.