Vermont Farmers

Hear all you New York Poets

The stone fences are low because
the Vermont farmers are too busy or too damn
Yankee cheap to build tall ones.

The granite you find so romantic
Vermont farmers curse for bending the
blades on their combines.

The deer you so reverently watch for
at down or in the gloaming
The farmer watches, too,
mentally drawing a neon orange bead
on the chest of the meatiest, the juiciest
The one with the biggest rack.

Vermont farmers cook their own dinner,
Change their own oil.
Feelings come as hard as life,
Calling you fancy boys and New York know-it-alls.
You can't spin a thread.