THE GOAT-BOY'S BUCOLIC
I was a kid, and I was half-lost
in every unfriendly pasture, and
mostly, mister, they were unfriendly.
Holsteins spotted me as fast
as boys in pick-ups pounded freaks.
The cows would roll their stupid eyes
and chew like mad. I'd kick up heels
through slop. Then they'd kneel down to cuss.
I was a kid, and I was half-lost
in every drunken barnyard where
the old man and his buddies bragged
about their acres, tractors, herds,
and chug-a-lugged. They hooted when
I spit up brew. You're not a man,
they cackled. Man, I trotted off.
Their rubber boots smelled worse than beer.
I was a kid, and I was half-lost
on every unpleasant hillside where
the probably-lopsided sheep
uprooted banks, laughed sadder laughs
than women I'd meet in redneck bars--
but that was later. Farm boys winked.
They'd fleece me, too, just like they fleeced
their darlings. Well, I hoofed downhill.
I was a kid, and I was half-lost
in every catch-all front yard where
the weeds were high as rusty cars.
When Out-of-Staters parked to buy
THE GOAT BOY’S BUCOLIC
our trinkets and our squash, they'd ask,
What chores can you do, son? You bet
I galloped fast behind a wreck.
(They never clicked my photo, sir.)
I was a kid, and I was half lost
in every late night parking-lot
where guys named Hoss and Slim would squeal
their Dusters out, and all the girls
were kissing, friend, like mongrel dogs
that yap in kennels. And if I butted
in, guys howled, Who's horny now?
Oh, yes sir, I hightailed it home.
L'Envoi
Stranger, in this nervous state
where German shepherds govern lawns
and rampage over flower beds
when a hitch-hiker, a lonely wolf,
stalks backwards up a curvy road,
and where the tourists brake and aim
their cameras at the wreathed barbed wire
or toward the unrepaired white church,
I figured out the law. Oh, watch
the half-breeds reel (as natives point)
bamboozled from the gin mill, sir.
This country tends to oddities:
folks keep them trained in cross-hair sights.
And when I noticed curtains pulled
and windows glaring, I neighed loud:
Kid Brother, beat it down the line.
Jack Hayes
© 2010
This poem originally appeared in Timbuktu
I was a kid, and I was half-lost
in every unfriendly pasture, and
mostly, mister, they were unfriendly.
Holsteins spotted me as fast
as boys in pick-ups pounded freaks.
The cows would roll their stupid eyes
and chew like mad. I'd kick up heels
through slop. Then they'd kneel down to cuss.
I was a kid, and I was half-lost
in every drunken barnyard where
the old man and his buddies bragged
about their acres, tractors, herds,
and chug-a-lugged. They hooted when
I spit up brew. You're not a man,
they cackled. Man, I trotted off.
Their rubber boots smelled worse than beer.
I was a kid, and I was half-lost
on every unpleasant hillside where
the probably-lopsided sheep
uprooted banks, laughed sadder laughs
than women I'd meet in redneck bars--
but that was later. Farm boys winked.
They'd fleece me, too, just like they fleeced
their darlings. Well, I hoofed downhill.
I was a kid, and I was half-lost
in every catch-all front yard where
the weeds were high as rusty cars.
When Out-of-Staters parked to buy
THE GOAT BOY’S BUCOLIC
our trinkets and our squash, they'd ask,
What chores can you do, son? You bet
I galloped fast behind a wreck.
(They never clicked my photo, sir.)
I was a kid, and I was half lost
in every late night parking-lot
where guys named Hoss and Slim would squeal
their Dusters out, and all the girls
were kissing, friend, like mongrel dogs
that yap in kennels. And if I butted
in, guys howled, Who's horny now?
Oh, yes sir, I hightailed it home.
L'Envoi
Stranger, in this nervous state
where German shepherds govern lawns
and rampage over flower beds
when a hitch-hiker, a lonely wolf,
stalks backwards up a curvy road,
and where the tourists brake and aim
their cameras at the wreathed barbed wire
or toward the unrepaired white church,
I figured out the law. Oh, watch
the half-breeds reel (as natives point)
bamboozled from the gin mill, sir.
This country tends to oddities:
folks keep them trained in cross-hair sights.
And when I noticed curtains pulled
and windows glaring, I neighed loud:
Kid Brother, beat it down the line.
Jack Hayes
© 2010
This poem originally appeared in Timbuktu
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