Midwestern morning,
Eastern rising dawn.
Supple dew drops shroud the field.
Gray skies brush the grounds.
The search for long grass
through the stench of famine and spring.
Days spent with head slung low.
Dollar signs, breaking necks, folding
at the knees, brings the above mentioned
to the prayer position.
Pressure on the platellas.
The dew sinks into the jeans
in through the skin.
Cursing at empty clouds.
Choking and gasping at broken eastern dawns.
A black horse shuffles by, looking for
tall grass, not looking at its exposed ribs.
We spend midwestern mornings in the field
hungry, looking for something new.
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