Blue jean stride leather boots on tar 

Walking past the wisp of dried faded corn stalks 

Backpack full of necessities, 

Shadowed by my oily brimmed Stetson

Straight on road, 

Yellow-faded duo lines over crest in crest to hazy horizon 

Old rusty sign, shaking to the warning of the present “Welcome to the Farm” 

5 mi to go to my small white crackly house, 

take a left into my great grandfathers fields 

Sitting down on the curl of a tractor black rubber wheel 

orange rusted hub, 

grass coming up for a peek 

Three generations lost behind an embargo of wheat, 

harvested interests rates, 

far-away trade embargo’s, 

then, touching my dads callused hands, as we walked the farms of his Dad… 

he sold off, never to be

Now, I, up and walk into another opioid statistic, 

A wisdoms’ alcoholism, 

no opportunity to retrain for future Internet of technical 

shiny coins that lay down in the cities of gold 

I just hold the wisdom of my families generational seed, 

in my minds gritty palm, 

to grow to harvest, 

A dust blowing in the wind 

Just ahead of my futures 

empty grasp

(C) 2024 Owen McCusker