Farmer Butcher or Shepard

The budget calls for more streaming lining,
Less fluff. The farmer peers out the window
At his sheep, used for wool, now being sold
To the slaughter house down the street, half
At least this way he could please the ground
As well as his father's name, still engraved
Upon the outpost, the mailbox creaking, wind
Seeking something else to rock back and forth
Rust in it's sails. His wife long departed, it was
now his own turn, soon enough, he still had half
A head of cattle, to take to the slaughter, and half
To shave, perhaps donate to his city slicker son
The last of the line of stockbrokers who went broke
Before jumping. He writes two letters, one to the butcher
The other to a generation, who would never answer the call
Of a farmer, who was really a shepard, turned butcher.

Christopher Baird 2012 ©