Left At the Farm
The full moon looks over a cornfield
left in shadows in the middle of the night.
Tires sing on the highway as I like awake
in a strange bed.
Dirt crusted boots a lined up
on steps to the upstairs.
The ceiling creeks, and I wonder
if I’m the only one to hear.
A tree outside the window
waves its weary arms.
My uncle always said
the work was never done.
Copyright © Mike Bayles | Year Posted 2019
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment