The Rice Silos
Once a month or so, I drive past some
rice silos in the distant tawny fields
of a speed-trap town.
In those fleeting seconds, 58 mph to
be exact, I examine those silos
like the scientist I am not.
Some things I pinpoint:
the grooves in the giant tin cylinder tops
tetanal rust forming at said grooves' edges
bird-shit stains that remain until it rains
the vast shadows darkening the backs of cows
Some things I wonder:
how tall and how stable are those silos
what is the volume of the giant tin cylinders
how many pounds of Arkansan rice can they hold
should I become a humble, tan-lined farmer
Sometimes, I see a farmer bent down
working while the torrid sun scorches
his calloused back.
I want to ask him how it feels to have
his four children's futures depend
on plentiful rainfall.
I want to ask him how it feels to curse
and slay the same animals he loves
to feed the world;
and before I know it, my seconds are up
I speed away, sifting through the radio
stations as I approach a long stretch
of Baptist churches.
i love this.
ReplyDeleteespecially the ending.
i think i might write a poem in a similar vein.
"bird-shit stains that remain until it rains
ReplyDeletethe vast shadows darkening the backs of cows"
I like that.
This poem is better than anything, bro.