Hay Market

Exuberance flies through the mouth of a hog;
that tenderloin needs a few days.

Burrow in a barn and send up a flare
when the farmer picks up his old pitchfork.

The crows don’t seem to mind the cold;
they didn’t invest in a timeshare.

The kitchen smells like onions and bacon grease.

Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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