Wasting it

The cows came in twice a day and
usually for milking,
sometimes if it rained they came in anyway
looking for shelter
looking for hay

I used to sit and count the ears on a sheaf of corn
wishing I hadn’t been born into this,
wishing that Julie Andrews would kiss me
instead of Dick Van,
then I grew into the man I am

a city man with a city street plan mapped out in my head.
thinking always thinking that this is being dead or something,

anything else before I tell you how much I miss those cows and
that corn?

© 2016, John Smallshaw.