Bless the Old Wheat Farmers
       

Bless their bellies and suspenders,
the tufts of white hair in their big ears,
their kindness, in spite of their old
and politically incorrect ideas.

Let them hold open the post office door,
let them make the vestigial gesture
of half way reaching up to touch
stained bills of John Deere caps.

Let them sit together at the coffee joint,
broad shoulders not quite touching,
let them talk wheat prices or which girl
here in town had to get married,

and let them feel studly and also tender.
Who doesn't like thinking about sex,
no matter if it's been a long time?
They swallow their cooled-off coffee.

They have pushed the rock of their years
up the sloped wheat fields for a lifetime,
and that big old rock gets smoother now
even as strength goes out of their arms.

Let the rock roll down gently at the end,
not wrecking the expensive new combine.
Let the living old guys wear clean shirts
to the cemetery and study their fingernails

as they dream about seeding or harvest.

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Copyright © 2020 Penelope Scambly Schott All rights reserved
from Connecticut River Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission