This morning, I am dizzy with the plump brown evidence
of fall.
The greenery is full.
The bucket of the cistern glints its use.
The baby is solid as a tractor lug.
In the kitchen, Martha glows fuller
than her cookstoves fire.
I want a dozen pancakes ma'am.
A ton of sausage, half a crate of eggs, some oatmeal,
and a loaf of toast.
Feed me woman.
Then kindly step back.
I intend to do some pretty damn fancy whistling
while I slop the hogs.