FAMILY FARMING IN THE FIFTIES

Mud on his boots, he left
dark remembrances, tiny clods
across her worn, oriental rug

to a pile beneath the chair,
discussing business, bib
overalls agape to flesh,

feet begging to get back
in the field. I see Louie’s
been here, she’d say arriving

from a pot of soup put on to boil.
A child underfoot, I’d look up
questioning and follow her eyes—

yet never wondered why
he did not stay for the noon meal.
The old house creaked all night,

leaking bits of conversations,
a scattered trail of syllables
that begin to sound familiar.

Some men should be left alone
to nurture dirt and feed us
for neither pay nor charge.