Another poem on the farming/working class, this one revived by my recent biking trips in the North Country and Southern Tier:
History of Cattaraugus County
Down the gully lies the cage
of a Plymouth towed there in the Fifties
by some farm kid on a tractor.
And while I’m dreaming I’ll guess
he lived in that house with the roofline
still clipping the horizon.
Don’t knock. The house dropped its guard
when lumber was honest, and now the weather
comes and goes, no questions asked,
through walls reduced to an invitation.
Even the road signs at the corner,
weathered with a soft brush,
hide something under their laurels
of creeper. All visible speaks of a living
or the lack of it. No new pastures
for this kid, he'd had his fill.
He had the wind and rain
from Lake Erie to answer to
and a future anywhere
but under his boots.