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The Farm



When I walk to the mailbox
the flock run to the fence
shouting BAD! BAD! BAD!
Clearly they've confused me
for someone else.
Some bills, some misguided ads.
Every piece of gravel a rock,
unique.  A mockingbird
warns me from the wire
that I don't belong here.
A calf leaps up and bolts,
stops after about ten yards
and looks back at me with suspicion,
with blame.  What are you
doing here? her eyes ask.
BAD! BAD! BAD!

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.