Look at this: rails and ties, straight and right,

straight through fields of brown and brown—

corn and beans in silo, brown stubble, brown earth.

Here, gone from the city center, the jewelry,

the missions, the pavers and asphalt,

past the worker bees' homes, modest at best,

past the merchants' homes, better, somewhat,

finally, past the gentries' immodest homes,

those on the hill, slight as it may be; then,

fields of brown and brown, and rails and ties,

straight and right, unnatural, but so straight,

and so right and shiny and purposeful.

Here, a farmhouse, falling down, here another,

newer, well kept with notes. Here, the implements—

plows and discs, harrowers and mowers,

balers, trucks, sties, corrals, a silo, all the bits

and pieces, none so straight and right, out here,

haphazard, set out of the way, implements

each set aside, for now, their purpose done, for now.

Come spring, summer, autumn, winter, each

hitched or pulled by an Allis, an Oliver, a Deere,

a Farmall, to pull, dig, tug, scoop, plant, harvest,

each in their own time; and the fields, hilly, 

square cornered, some with fences, but none

so straight and right, all seem to the conductor

to be something hellish, something to be condoned,

almost forgiven for their imperfections—this,

left and right, he sees: drab, despite a flag or motto,

despite every effort, but especially for every 

lack of effort. He sees something lesser, is proud

and smug to pass it. Then, the gentries' homes

on the hill, the merchants, the worker bees',

the depot, the jewelry, the missions, the pavers

and asphalt, and then, look: his own home, try

as he might, imperfect, neither straight nor right,

but home, as if that said, it is enough. It isn't.

Look: a boy and his dog, if not Timmy and Lassie,

close enough, bounding, playful, a stick or ball—

"fetch!" And this: sky so blue and clouds so white,

sun on the white siding and the goldenrod in bloom,

"a-choo!" And this: Junior shooting hoops and Sis

with cartwheels, and Mom in her garden, harvesting

heads of lettuce, rhubarb (for pie!), carrots, squash,

blue-ribbon tomatoes, and hollyhock and Sweet William.

Look: Dad coming home from the field, tilled field!

Oh Lord, what a sight! Lawn so green, oak so stout,

maple with an inkling of red, an inkling of an inkling.

He lets the tractor idle while he teases sis, shoots

hoops with Junior, and gives Mom a knowing smile. 

Then, slides wide the massive shed doors, backs in

the tractor and tiller, he'll work late tonight, there are

filters to be changed, bearings to be greased. Oh blessed chores!

He would stay all night, but for the sidelong glance,

for the stirring. Look: Timmy comes to greet him, "Hi Dad!"

Dad tousles his hair, swelling with pride, and something

he can't identify, but we know it's love. Look: there goes

the Silver Streak, how it glints in the sunshine, how each

gives silent thanks that they are where they are, going nowhere.

Look: the bountiful table. Listen: Junior saying grace,

while around the bountiful table hands are held

and heads are bowed in silence before the chatter of the day—

games and grades and who likes whom and who said what

and what about this and what about that and did you see

and have you heard? Look: Dad carves and  Mom dishes

and Lassie raises her sleepy head, cocks an ear. Listen:

only another passing train. She lays her head on her paws,

huffs a contented sigh. Look at this home: straight and right.