I knew a farmer’s daughter,
after the farmer was buried in the dell.
The farmer’s widow ran the rolling spread,
which the farmer’s son looted
and the farmer’s daughter played on.
Baby-voiced Squeaky was full-growed, hearty stock,
but despite the years that made her a mama herself,
she was still the little girl that Daddy left behind.
Once she learned that My lap could hold her,
and My hand was fair,
she gave Me her dead Daddy’s shoes,
and I filled them along with her other vacancies.
The farmer’s widow set up for a yard sale,
and covered part of her acreage with possessions
that suited her less than ready cash.
Someone had to guard the inventory overnight
from any strangers that just might pass
along the dark farm-to-market road,
and Squeaky volunteered the two of us.
It was a special occasion for My girl,
her mama actually allowing us to sleep together
in the back of their old truck parked on the lawn,
even though everyone knew
there’d be no real privacy
in the hush of that prairie night.
But My babygirl’s eyes were as big as the moon above us,
her sweet cuddling warm and inviting,
and I was always up for a covert challenge.
To no one’s surprise,
My overture roused the squeaks of the rusted spring section
just outside smirking Mama’s window,
and the curtain fell with the shushing of My babygirl,
“Mama will hear us.”
Kissing her cheek, I guided her fair head to its mission.
Dutiful as always,
but this time she didn’t giggle out loud.
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Poemission
Pickup Bed
BACK
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