barn-boy

A barn-boy ate metropolis,
(who told s. francis who then told me)
his stool and hog feed handiwork
by the enterprising gypsy drivers, by the Blue Note
by the mud channel
at the foot of the pump;
staunch, stalk-certain.

Central web transmissions
hummed across a thin bare wire
on this holiest of Fridays-
(an elk-horn trumpet by a silver river
filled to brimming with
water.)

Tight, grey-green eyes
crushed under in the roll
of several astonishing yet unfair Obligations,
and these with which he saw into the seams
- of pre-dawn grain gate hinges
- of a railway station newsstand
papered in his rare, exclusive story:

(these he observed both blind and not hearing.)

also where two inadequate petitions have been nailed
(and suitably endorsed)
onto a leaning fence-post overnight
in a yawning field on the brisk side of Calvary hill.

Neither with the will or strength
to raise defenses from
the slightest pinch of what a barn-boy dreams,
of red delicious
coarse pine cross-walk wheels and baskets,
of bicycles and amulets
(that shimmer in the first appearance of daylight,
just before the milk truck breaks this spell),

and shivering fern and tall grass cutting
air.

Barn-boy and quite certainly Crow
came home delicious
from his nap.
Scared into the house
by a firm shrill caw and cloud formations.

© Jeff Thomas 2009