My song is a sinkhole
at the center of arable land;
you watch from the far balk,
too steep to till,
arms akimbo, chin-to-chest,
while I circumnavigate these fields,
dust percolating to the sky as hard
as this ground.
You could have, should have,
gone to the coast, gone with
that hat-wearing man
with the green car.
Instead you went with credit
at the counter, no children,
no neighbor, trying to get
my attention for dinner.
