Making Hay Poem by Percy Dovetonsils

They stand in the fields
slinging their blades
cutting hay
as their ancestors did
in Ukraine, in Nebraska,
in Saskatchewan,
except the hay
is gone
and in its place
are little balls
on astro turf
and the great hay mows
and straining oxen
gone
the harvest festival
no more
the exhausted
sunburned
farmers
turn,
as the lights go out,
put their drivers
in their bags
retreat
under the
harvest moon
to the parking lot
put their bags
in their trunks
drive off
to their wives
and homes
and so
another day
on the farm
ends.