Good Friday
Yesterday’s grass
weaves into threads of rubber
decaying off spoked
iron tractor wheels.
A thrasher, harvester,
and an ancient Ford pickup truck
oxidize angry red
into the cracked clay
of the lot.
A barn,
ramshackled
by too many recessions,
leans precariously
into the forked crook
of a towering maple tree.
Twisters of dust
rip along a dirt road
to reveal poisoned grass
and sun baked cattle bones
in an abandoned field.
A gray blanket hugs
the bottom of heaven
and licks
the ground cold
with unseen tongues
of mist.
Crows gather
on drooping telephone wires
picking flees off each other
to stave off starvation.
The ground quakes
in bassy emotive sobs
of anticipation
for the coming tempest.
Two dirty children play
in a lone two by four yard.
They scream
in a delightful noise
blowing
clouds of soapy bubbles
into the air
oblivious to a world
gone astray
outside
their picket fence.
A vulture stands watch
on a knobby fingered
arthritic oak
—waiting.
A high pitched whine
daggers
through my ears
as the dream
collapses into a
foreboding
silence.
Yes!
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