Relic
& once a series of pulleys rose
sweet hay to the high-arched loft
& once cattle were milked with warm hands
(young and old) in the stanchions
& once the horses were harnessed and shoed
with forged metal while tied to one of the posts
& once dusty coats were hung on hooks
among the tools that fixed and built
& once a medallion rooster spun on the roof
with bullet holes from a bulls-eye shot
& once the red paint was as glossy as a
bright dime against the blue backdrop
& now this building is a shell, a lost relic
seen on the drive to city skylines
from the endless paved highways
Steward
the steward – the one with the worn cap on
his head, the patched wranglers on his legs, and
a plaid shirt with holes in the fabric begging for thread
he has his trusty pliers hanging from his leather belt
and a broken watch on the wrist so that he
can drive home on time for dinner and lunch
“close to retirement” they all say at the local
spots: CO-OPs, tire shops, and coffee pots
and it’s true – the steward is aged
his skin wrinkled from the hot sun
his hair dirty gray – yet still holding onto
a curl from when he was a babe –
and so “I’ll start slowly” he says
Learn more about Jennifer on our Contributors’ Page.
(Photo: Jennifer A. Walker)
- Two Poems by Jennifer A. Walker - March 31, 2022