Freeman Rogers Letter from Innisfree
Excuse the clay and wattles on the page—
building this one-room hovel made me age
about ten years, and now the walls are peeling,
and during rainstorms chunks drop off the ceiling
like giant turds. I've patched the patches' patches,
but now, because an earth-tone theme best matches
my clothes, I've given up. And anyway,
I'm busy keeping hunger pangs at bay,
what with the failing crops: Of nine bean rows
I sowed, one-and-a-half broke ground, and those
turned out to be white beets. I also planted
the other vegetables you'd take for granted,
but the loud linnets came and ate the seeds.
I spend six hours daily yanking weeds,
this afternoon I watched black hornets seize
two of the hives I built for honeybees,
the yard's a feral felines' free-for-all,
and all night, the goats bleat and kick their stall.
My only neighbors live two miles away,
and they're illiterate and think I'm gay
because I mentioned once that I'm a poet.
The worst thing is, you'd hardly even know it
these days: Since I arrived, I haven't penned
a line without remembering to tend
to some dull farm responsibility,
and any sparks of creativity
are doused by bah-ing sheep and the ripe reek
of excrement, which grows worse every week.
Write back. Great God, I'm lonely as a Dickens
protagonist! All day I talk to chickens,
but nights I dream of beer and double-Ds.
(I'll pay you back if you send money. Please.)