There are places they won’t go,
places they’ll lose an acre or two
by keeping a safe distance, the crop
edgy and frayed where discs
didn’t dig deep or where the seeder
ran out of super and grain, denuded boxes
like black holes drawing on each other’s emptiness,
wheel-kick on loam-clod as the tractor
struggles to pull the machine
the hell out of there, though almost
wanting to be close—bright parrots
sarcastic in fruit trees, saying "it’s fine over here,
the fruit is good." But they know better,
it’s a patch to be avoided, old house
boarded up, water tanks rusted through.
"What a waste," says an outsider. The reply:
"Brings a glow to the rest of the place."
The shame hidden there, the bulk
of the farm productive, well-managed.