He was a big man, says the size of his shoes
On a pile of broken dishes by the house;
A tall man too, says the length of the bed
In an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man,
Says the Bible with a broken back
On the floor below a window, bright with sun;
But not a man for farming, say the fields
Cluttered on boulders and a leaky barn!.
A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall
Papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves
Covered with oilcloth, and they had a child
Says the sandbox made from a tractor tire!.
Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves
And canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar-hole,
And the winters cold, say the rags in the window-frames!.
It was lonely here, says the narrow country road!.
Something went wrong, says the empty house
In the weed-choked yard!. Stones in the fields
Say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars
In the cellar say she left in a nervous haste!.
And the child!? Its toys were strewn in the yard
Like branches after a storm – a rubber cow,
A rusty tractor and a broken plow,
A doll in overalls!. Something went wrong, they say!.
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