What of It?

What of It? 

What of it?  The grain

bag limp in the middle 

half gone invitation

to rats if it weren't

for the sentry tom, his

knotted paw (caught

in some trap or shot

and all the more caustic

for it) and the dust

coming up in the mote

of sun early enough

from may on through

who needs the brief

kerosene limp in her faux

crystal base and teetering

fingers filling her in

the dark after the globe's

come off and laid new born

baby like in the dry

sink clean of the weeks

of keeping the wick just

clear enough of the draft

burner to see what all

of the buckets and the odd

missed thus unmilled

kernel picked up by the hob

of his boot and left off

on the way to the coop what of

it easing itself in the mud

if there is some and it 

dulling in the rut before

some dove comes to

sooth the view into 

a descending fog in front

of the sun and what's already

come and gone and done

its dust job on that grain

bag, heavy enough fog

that won't burn off.  And all

that walks in and out 

of ill or good will be omens

will be thrown some briefly some

forever by the jittery needle

excited by the iron shoved

in the fire to light the pinched

end of last summer's news,

the come and gone of men

and the aging hen on the block.