The Homesteader sits on the Ground and Considers his Situation
I’d give my mother’s honor for a chair
out here to sit on. Mother, sad but true,
would scarcely miss it, and I’d have my chair.
It needn’t be a throne—a stool will do,
although I’d like a back to it. A chair
feels impotent without a back and who
would want to sit on the unmanly chair
with a limp sense of worth. My mother knew
a bit about that—not about the chair,
or chair’s back, but about self-worth. “In lieu
of love,” she’d say, “choose wealth and a good chair
to sit on.” So I ventured west into
this land for wealth’s sake, but forgot a chair
and find no wealth in land. My boundless view
could turn a sultan green; but with no chair
to sit on, it’s just dirt. I wouldn’t rue
my rough-rumped lot if I’d pinched Mother’s chair.
She’d cry, “That crook’s his mother through and through.”
And I’d agree, of course. As would the chair
The Homesteader Prays to his God of Longer nights
I beg you, opium,
come, come into my head
and batter like a drum
The wood is stacked, the hay
is bailed, the peas are canned.
As nights grow colder, they
and rush to where I am.
Come, come, sweet opium.
Sentinel Poetry (Online) #51 ISSN 1479-425X
THE INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF POETRY & GRAPHICS...since December 2002
Editor-in-Chief: Amatoritsero Ede