a poem in my pocket

Lillian is opening the doors of the poets’ pub at dVerse…join us!

hip-roofed, wood frame barn
built in nineteen thirty-six
(the year scrawled on wall)
proudly presides over all on
Iowa farmyard/homestead

split-door is half invitation
to go ahead, peek inside;
smell leftover manure,
hay, veterinary medicinals
for former/current residents

lift latch-hook, swing open
duck, step over threshold;
lean against rough y-post,
finger a knotted bale twine
and feel cobwebs brush face

listen for echoes, stories of
past and present agriculture:
work horse munching oats
piglets nuzzle as sow grunts
new kittens mew, mama purrs

beady-eyed boss hen clucks
proudly in her nest-box row,
rusty elevator squeaks as
crew moves/stacks straw,
voices of boys play in loft

close door quick, keep calf in!