American Gothic

I stand before you
a poem etched pitchfork
in my hand,

though you offer me yours
with nothing etched in the handle
but the wear of work.

The woman beside you
wears an expression
from so long standing beside you,

and behind you both
the house.

Though hay lies in the fields
I etch another poem in the handle
like grooves wagons leave in mud,

or like the house itself
to those who step inside.

After the Iowa Caucus

Finally the circus left town…
with its trapeze acts, its knife
throwers and clowns,

and the quiet of cornfields
returned to the town square,
and to coffee houses

between thoughtfully
planted rows of conversation

in which we can again agree
on such matters as topsoil,
sunshine
and rain.