Farmer, by Patricia Traxler

My grandpa was a farmer
shaved with big hands
on his straightedge
wiping grey goo onto
a newspaper fold
at the kitchen table
white chipped pan
warm dirty water
he stared out
at the fields
never missed a spothis eyes were set deep
like a crop he’d always hoped for
and he talked so slow

that
when he died
and they laid him out
in the parlor and all
the farmers swallowed hard
and their women cried
I sat waiting
for his
next
word