Monday, January 17, 2022

 I am forty acres

Or 20, or 10 or 15
and at the end of every day
I plow me under.
Alcohol runs the plow,
a couple of beers and half a bottle of wine.
I am overrun.
I will rise like a bean sprout tomorrow morning
- sleep-step to the coffee maker.
And be the field where the fruits of my labor
grow.

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