My Sad Farm

My sad farm was never funny
just tons of work. Work we finished
too early and too late. In the summer
we were cowboys loading white-faced calves
at cow camp up in the mountains. In winter
we shoveled and chewed all over again.
Our inventions actually worked. Well.
One poem didn’t let go of another.
Each tractor parked next to the next.
I thought it might have something to do
with wild ponies just like in a song
about them. But that spoke of nothing.
The stuff about all those wild ponies
and their mannerisms. Their behavior
needing taming and how. Tina said
I should spray her wicker furniture under their
credenza. The last time she spoke to me.
How it was important to have a clean driveway.

Get to it. The neighbors are waiting. They never called.
Only to find out when we died. And how.