He holds down a factory job
so he can keep the farm.
Early morning,
he punches in twice,
once via hands squeezing cow teats,
the second with a yellow card
slotted into an old gray time clock.

He’s a weary man
after a hard day on the assembly line,
a twilight in the tractor saddle,
plowing up the earth and gravel.

He could toss it in any time,
move to a tiny town apartment,
but the farm was in the family
when there was no town.
And under the bed,
there’s a box of photographs,
faded glossies of watching eyes.

On Sundays,
it’s church
and visiting his wife’s grave.
God’s no help,
Clara’s dead.
It’s a day of rest
with a hole in the middle.