by Bill Jansen
This morning I drive through farmland,
(B.B. King on the radio)
and let my hand think it is the muzzle of an Irish Setter,
I bark at the man in overalls who waves at us from his property.
Sadly he seems to have only one arm.
But even with just one arm
I like to think he has a good wife,
as well as loyal children who help with the chores.
We proceed down the road
raising a cloud of dust behind us.
No wife, no children, no farmer's arm.
Two sets of nostrils decide to inhale every transient miracle,
grip life like some useless rag
being pulled on by another more powerful dog
at the opposite end of the world.