Oh Papa, is this how it ends?

What of cows?

The men that watch them from the road? The Women folk
that stand by and let them be milked for all they’re worth?
The fields of Pennsylvania are browning now. Too late for hay
for long hours of sunshine have passed and now the cold
is revealed in our wordlessness. The boys watch them stand

chewing on some long held hurt. The men stand on their shadow-tips
praying redemption is enough, if only they can wait long enough.
The women folk, they do not know the manure, except as stains
and a vague scents of something wrong. The fields of Pennsylvania
roll past the Poconos, out to Harrisburg, and the boys play

in what is left of autumn. It has been so many years since
the lion stood and watched the boys and the cows and the men
standing on the feet of their own shadows. Perhaps it is hell
that holds us foot to ground, lip to lip and tongue behind?
A heavy rake, a plough, the men wait. The boys off, out of sight.

Perhaps it is the drain where faith was washed away that leaves us
standing by a dry hole wanting back the dream before the flood?
Perhaps it is a drought, and every farm must fail for now.
The men will eat the red steak. The women will bow their heads.
The boys will pop wheelies in vacant lots when their friend returns.

What of the cows, well-milked, or slaughtered? What of the truth
of the duties left under the golden Pennsylvania pale of last weeks sun?
Dare I say, they do not serve any but their own cold hearts,
those who only stand and wait?