The Misguided Paranoia of Farmer Coetzee

That farmer, Coetzee.

There he stands, swathed in good rain,
plump swine, dining on factory-loomed cloth
and some kind of aliment wife-Marie
calls Four Happiness Ginger Pork.

Is he content?

Does he cross his lanolin-arms,
his tractor-thighs, sniff the coffee
that Marie is porting to the painter?

No. He mistrusts his land,
its off-beat riff, mystical schedules,
its maverick approach to oranges
and vinegar, man and woman.

At night he stamps his fields,
moist finger thrust into the wind's
dry rectum. Is that swag in the maize?
Does that radiator of finches auger
a general collapse, such as crushes
miners and their canaries?

He prepares beef jerky.
He climbs back onto an ulcered
tractor. He kneels before dinner,
shuts his eyes as Marie flecks paint
from her lips, watches as he punishes
his discs at prayer
beside an early colonial chair.

Dear Lord, thank you for this bounty….

That farmer, Coetzee. 

© Christian Simon