Job's Farm

 

Job’s Farm

 

Huge black cones of manure

almost conceal the whitewashed barn[wd1] .

Above the broad green double doors:

Speak to the Earth & it Shall Teach Thee.

Job’s cattle, belted Netherlands,

a dozen bison and four llamas,

 

gaze at my parked car in wonder.

Two horses carefully ignore me.

The day features cloud sculpture

human hands can’t replicate.

God punished Job for loyalty,

then reversed course to reward him.

 

Our new political universe

applauds such moral bravado.

The Job who farms this flatland

votes against his own best interest

and sends his steers to market

with fear storming their senses.

 

No god expects this pragmatist

to spend a thought on a future

beyond the drifting summer sky.

The hip-roofed barn regards me

as the cattle do. Yes, I’m here

to critique the painted bible verse

 

and the manure heaped to sell

to the nearest fertilizer plant.

No corn grown on this farm. Grazing

and commercial bagged feed suffice.

Thunder will arrive later, dragging

its baggage across the landscape.

 

The creatures will shrug off the rain.

Job will tuck himself into

his cozy living room and learn

nothing the earth hadn’t taught him

long before some angel composed

that gray consolatory verse.

 

 

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