On the farm

Some days I wake up as weak as pond water,
to tired to scratch the chigger bug bites on my legs.
The days fly by with a gush and a howl
in one ear and out the other.

I have lived each one of them 24s
but damn if I can remember yesterdays breakfast.
I reckon most of my grey matter has somehow
changed to doesnt matter.
Aint gonna fret over matters of such

The good lord means well for me
problem is that I am not all that well to mean much.
Out back the barn needs a painting.
Walls as weathered and as my skin
with streaks of gray like my beard.

My hound still greets me every morning
with a tail wag and a head nod.
Where does he get all that energy from?

Funny, my bed has a mold
where I lay the night before,
use to be for a bigger, stronger man.
He must have slipped out the back door
when I wasnt watching.

The coffee pot is whistling,
flap jacks n peach cobbler served.
These days I eat what I want,
why not, how many more are left?

Copyright 2008 Ronald J. Edwards