A farmer of red dirt.

This poem is set somewhere in time, between the last polio poster child and the end of home milk delivery, when they stopped making farmers (except for the exceptions). There was this old farmer I hung with three miles north of Fairland, Oklahoma, walking that funny way you do over plowed ground. Then suddenly the farmer was gone. And he isn’t coming back.

Farmer Brown

Larry Moffitt

Grandfather only flirted with senility
on the days we rode to the stock auction
singing the same verse
of “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles”
so many times
that even the sheep in the back
were happy to die.

Weather was central.
Baseball was central.
The Russians were central.
The Bible was central.
Helping was central.
The other parts of life were alongside the trail,
chicken feathers and onion skin.

The most difficult thing he ever had to do
besides die,
was put his dog to sleep.
He was ancient and familiar,
a cross between the smell of dried leaves
and the taste copper pennies leave in your mouth.

Larry Moffitt
Oct 30, 2013