A Salt Poem

He was a salty old guy, a farmer for years. He had a tractor, a trailer, a cow with big ears. His wife was the salt of the earth, a woman with thighs. That could crush a combine; they had their lows and their highs. There was salt on the table; on the popcorn too. Which they had nightly, watching TV in the dark, a blue hue. They rose rather early, five o’clock was too late. Four o’clock was much better for the cow’s full teat state. They produced corn in their field every other year or two. Got government subsidies some years to not do what they do. He was a salty old guy with a family farm he’d inherited. His wife was one of those red-headed girls down from village of Merrited. They had six sons and four daughters, for it was the forties you see. When the dustbowl was happening, and there was scarcity. On their table they always had potatoes, meat and corn with salt. Once or twice a year they’d take the kids into town for a chocolate malt. The kids all wanted to grow up and be farmers too. Some did of course, but there was only enough land for a few. Some became teachers, and some became other stuff. But salt was a staple for all of them, sure enough.