In the week that follows
the old men will circle-up,
each with their own scars,
notches pinked
by the singing sting
of barb-wire
or a finger, that ends
in the puckered knot
of a rosy knuckle.
They will tell what they know
of the accident
in the hushed tones
of those that remain.
Perhaps it is found
pinned beneath
a tractors heavy roll,
or in the quick slip
of the saw’s chain
that rips the grain
of a thigh,
or a shirt-tail
that finds its way
to the baler’s maw.
Left unsaid
is how it is
that a chore done,
day in and out
turns deadly,
as they cast
an envious eye
to the field left untended.