winter makes me hungry

hidden in a field of queen’s lace,
i watched the mennonite working.
up and down he bounced on the
metal seat of a single blade plow,
pulled by two belgian horses with
thick legs, muscular shoulders and
haunches-in. an old-fashioned boy
with a straw hat that shadowed a
beardless face, the mark of a man.
he’s planting his seed, he’s never
participated in the, “sins of the world.”
maybe he’s one of those anabaptists
that emphasize peace, good works and
service. my lucky day he’s not some
damn amish. his graven image has
been burned into my eyes. my voyeur
appetite well fed. when he waved i
knew it was going to a be a good
summer. he’ll take off his shirt, and on
fridays bathe naked in the little
brokenstraw, but i digress, that’s
another poem, it will be a good fall
when it’s time to reap what he’s carefully
sown into the rich black dirt of my heart.

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