Workhorse

My neighbor Gordon died today,

his old, dead manhide

stiff on the stainless slab at the mortuary next door.

I never saw him rest,

wear short pants,

sip a Bud on a hot summer’s day, farm work done.

His back stooped from years of work, from years

of nagging from his fat wife.

She rode him like a mule, spurs deep into slim ribbed side.

“300 pounds of love” he said with a nervous twitch.

We’ll bury him up, Friday at noon,

then lunch in the Presbyterian Fellowship Room.

cream of mushroom casseroles made with love

cards with checks and such pay the way to

greener pastures, no harping voice.

A land of leisure where

He’ll loaf the day no wheat to plant

He’ll sleep at night, the first time through

No John Deers to tinker with, no clover to bale,

No loan bills to pay back, no Herford butts to slap.

Shudda been his wife,

Here lies

Gordon’s wife,

Tireless woman,

Overbearing mother,

Technical spouse.

We laugh, smile, and drink some more,

remembering a headstone.