The Dust Bowl

A Poem

Illustration created by Midjourney

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The Dust Bowl

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A dry wind winds the weathercock;
a weatherbeaten clock is wound.
The dust motes dance their danse macabre,
then drop dead on the dusty ground.

A withered ancient woman 
winds that weathered mantel clock.
She paces through the farmhouse
in a faded floral frock.

The minute hand was stopped when Gene
curled up and died in pain.
A week before? No, maybe more. . .
Each day now seemed the same.

For time had vanished with the sky.
Yet time was close at hand.
He’d come a-callin’ claimin’ he
was claimin’ unclaimed land.

The dust slips through the crannies
and the gaps around the door.
It settles on the clock and on
her frock and on the floor.

They buried Gene out back between
the rusty pump and shed.
The priest said, “Dust to dust.” 
“Ain’t that the truth,” his widow said.

Now when she breathed there was a heave
and violent coughing fit.
And now the blow flies filtered in,
for blow flies covet shit.

She thought she glimpsed the shadow of
Eugene upon the wall. 
She said, “I’ll be there soon enough.”
He answered in his drawl: 

“Ya wound the clock. Time to take stock
of all ya still hold dear.
Our son out east in Pittsburgh is
beside himself with fear. 

“So you tell him that daddy died 
but passed along his love.
And I’ll see you some years from now
in someplace high above.”

The neighbors burst into the house,
they scoop her from the floor.
They grab her things and valuables.
They exit through the door.

They rouse her in the front seat of
a beat-up Model A. 
The driver says, “A’ight, Miss Blunt.
We gotta get away.”

The driver’s wife sits in between,
an infant in her arms.
The other kids are in the bed.
The road is lined with farms.

A dry wind winds the weathercock.
The weatherbeaten clock’s still wound.
The shade of Farmer Blunt abides
upon the dusty ground.

Illustration created by Midjourney

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