The Hicks Next Door

Bucket of slop poured in a trough
Led by dogs who follow the scent
Into the dark without a flashlight
Into the field they imagine belongs to no one

Tending the hives of hornets
Having sex with a tale pipe
Watching the kite string from the flat earth
The finger pointing at the abysmal sky

The geese honking at their stalled carcasses
The dictionary they’re standing on to see
On the rocking chair repairing itself
With glue from their best friend Mr. Horseface