Downwind from the Feed Lot

It stinks out here tonight. Sometimes, the odor
Of the feed lot in the valley carries this way.
All the world is cow manure, and the air has gotten
Cold. I grab some wood to make a fire,
Pausing, as I always do this time of year, to place
Myself within these grim surroundings: leafless
Trees, and distant cars, and stars of little
Consequence which feebly light the frozen sky.
No one is near. No one is coming. I will
Make a fire, do some drinking, write a poem,
Go to bed. Another night will pass, and, in
The morning, I'll return to work, and, should
Somebody there, in passing, ask me to assess
My life, I'll smile bravely, as I'm wont to do,
And tell them that it stinks.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 108 times
Written on 2019-11-22 at 00:55

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