When whiskey won’t numb the news.
Or the chill. When the sky is its most
cerulean, so clean it seems the birds
avoid flight just to keep from marring
its perfection. The stillness of cows
against the cropless fields, lazy props
in a plotless drama outsiders call
picturesque. The highway almost
voluptuous, beckoning: Follow me.
In summer with a different accent.
Still, you refuse to budge, yourself
a lazy prop? This soil in your soles.
Even when you damn it, falling flat
on your ass, negotiating the icy path
to your door.