Migrant

when the land is your land 

i am a stranger now forever

but my hands at your work

are familiar enough

 

rise again with ancient dawn 

slowly worms turning 

over in fecundity

key the tractor ignition

looking horizonward into red sun

teeth grinding already grit 

the taste of engine grease

the oily belch the blinding screech 

running forward over the 

chastity of earth bursting forth fresh 

grown corn hears a future sizzle

fried chicken faithful friends 

continual cries of all the hens 

and the solitary rooster fed

crows remain unafraid

strawman upstanding in the golden grain 

honey running in the apiary  

at dusk farm fields smelling of shit

dinner tables steam in tired silence

all you have but do not possess

and i wash dirt from my hands 

outside at the spigot boots in mud 

wind in sweat black hair

my shaky legs and barking soles

now walking down that way

down that way