A rusty colored barn is twisted
Half its body has blown out.
Its board feet have collpased upon each other;
the frame is a tribute to an era
when getting rich wasnt made by getting bigger
Instead by living honestly with routenily less
I think of all the factory farms,
those cuttthoarts who must have
promised fame in exchnage to tear down the barn
The home still stands beyond the barn
A row of double stacked hay bales insulates
the shelter from polar vortexes
Flakes of white paint hold the stories
of thousands of chores- but today animals
no longer roam the vacant lot.
The home looks arthritically shaken
on this January day.
I want to pull in through the drifts
to make sure the old farmer in his overalls
is warm, and has enough straw
to fill the spaces between his barnyard heart
About the Author
All poetry is original work by Brian Gibbs.