Chores

Chores

— after a photograph by Ralph Eugene Meatyard

As the thinning sky looks downward
with sleepy satisfaction, the boy pauses.
An exhausted shock of dark hair hangs
down over his right eye, sweat collects
at his collar. His thick forearms protrude
from rolled-up sleeves, two denim snakes
only half-shed of their skin. He labors alone,
lugging load upon load of crushed stone,
moving it from one large mound and depositing
it along the barn’s blackened foundation.
Soon his mother will ring the dinner bell,
tolling him toward the smell of thick steak,
corn, potatoes and bread, reminding him
of the farm’s purpose, his. He will lean
the tired wheelbarrow against the stone wall
and walk toward the house, his boots crackling
over gravel, like so much unrecognized applause.

Paul Scot August

Originally posted in Stone’s Throw Magazine – Issue #5

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2 Responses to “Chores”

  1. Paul I believe that the last line is so wonderful

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