~another bucketman series~

the week was dry
without whit, she

misses humor in
the mundanity

of modern dwelling.
thinking the rustic

life may be the
more illustrious

after all this social
experimenting and

clammoring to the
new heights, perhaps

the obillisk with the
small cottage and

two acres, like kernals,
would be the wiser

stimulation. where
clothes could be

dropped for a balmy
steam in the outdoor

sweathouse for family
or close friends with

vodka all around
one, two, three shots

then basking by firelight
at the end of a "day"

of tilling owned earth.
would have merit.

the blackberry gives
her sore tendons.

like the swell after a
romp on the keyboard

battling words for the
merriment of unknown

souls or soldiers, who
are wrecking their toils

on humanity. the earnest
buck, somehow shot

for his rack. to hang
on walls with decals

and profane misalignments
the faked photos with

handshakes and leers
from sidelines. of those

jealous souls. to labor
at the earth and shake

her roots. would somehow
be beneficial. and maybe

a little paint and dabbling
with herbs would satisfy

what she has become.

(Copyright © Donna L. Quesinberry-2007)