Iowa Haiku Cycle, No. 1

In a barnyard, sighs
of melancholy, yearning.
Hayden Fry yet dreams?

The highway murmurs
distantly in blue twilight:
Is Maid-Rite open?

Can it be ennui
if fields and trees are devoid
of occupation?

Comes a rejoinder,
rattling dry husks: What would
Henry Wallace do?

Emerges this truth:
The smell of money is like
a barnyard sighing.

 

 

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