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Farmboy Sleeps

Brock Miller


Rain is rinsing the chopping block.
A cold, dark day, when the wind
seeps through the cracks of your shirt
just like water finds its way
between an old boat’s boards;
grass, mud, axe, blood
and feathers stuck on that old block
make a boy think twice about
what he eats.
There on a Sunday,
a day of rest,
when farms thank God for rain,
or pray for the end of a drought,
fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and a long nap:
the axe, the block,
the rainclouds,
the flop, dance, fling and shake
of the freshly killed bird
it all
fits together
somehow? the farmboy wonders
and sleeps.