White Picket Fence

We were driving in the stakes
of a white picket fence, handkerchiefs
hanging out of our pockets.

A man was whistling
to himself in the distance.

A dog was barking.

The earth was sagging under the post
like an old pair of breasts.

The sun spoke in drawn-out
sighs.

I drank water from a mason jar.

I could taste the dank dirt
beneath my fingernails.

We swung mallets like
a prison chain-gang.

A cow stared at us from across
the way, a wad of cud sifting
between its jaws.

A pile of rocks grumbled
and walked up to us.

We counted our eggs and shot
a rooster out of a cannon.

Hunger hibernated in the pit
of my stomach, so I broke down
and wept.

I squat and defecate in the dirt.