Skip to main content
He still stands in the back row with the traditional misery. His plants always get his carbon dioxide. But his hope trapped in the collapsed price suffocates. Farm Aid Package orbits over his life like a malfunctioning satellite. His debt thrives among the dream debris. The farmers’ dry voice flames in the street. He too throws his produce. His cauliflowers scatter on the road like the baton-charged protest. First published in the Creative Writing Ink. Reprinted in The Literary Hatchet.
Rating
No votes yet