Exhaust
Down the country road
I witnessed a lengthy cordial visit.
An older man was gabbing colorfully
with the farmer’s daughter,
an independent woman
who tended the horses.
His worn parked truck
was still running
when I walked past them
a second time,
having circled back.
The man’s desperate smile stuck
clinging to the memory of a younger chassis—
was no less taken
by the farmer’s daughter,
who feigned interest,
nodded mechanically.
But several minutes had elapsed,
exhaust billowing in the air,
hovering like twilight fog—
the farm work had to get done—
and the sun cast longer shadows
of doubt with each chug
of his aging engine.
Coming Winter
When you breathe in now,
cool air shocks the soul
before the slumber.
You crave soft candlelight,
the brotherhood of books,
whisps of steam from the kettle-warm.
The swallows have gone,
the fall fields have been felled
by the cultivator’s crass cutting.
Its B note drones on
well past sundown,
cancelling the cows’ cries.
Alone, we are now,
in this quiet evensong,
in this clipped twilight,
like forlorn fawn
rummaging beyond allotted time
for the once green and hearty—
then leaping
into the dark season,
unknowing.
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(Photo: tuchodi/flickr.com/ CC BY 2.0)
- Two Poems by Mark Strohschein - November 23, 2023