Dust #1

The grooves in my records
are worn down and blurred like
the furrows in the fields
drenched in dust and no
rain

these records no longer play
the music of men
but instead the arid
bitter music of static
and dust

graceful as the cough
of the farmer squatting
in the dusty twilight of his barn
with a shotgun in his mouth
big toe curled around the trigger waiting
patiently for the good lord to tell him
to stop and knowing damn well
he never will