Tell me when the cheese is ready.
I have found the bread.
In the barn outback I suspect
Unsuspecting farm animals have hidden
the farmer's beer, pulling it dull as hand grenades
Into the straw. I will wrestle
Any domestic working breed for it.
We will have our conqest feast.
I have pulled my last trigger.
I have fired my last bullet.
We are going to celebrate, sleep
One night in the farmer's bed,
Shed our uniforms for the farmer's clothes,
Ride a horse, take a bicycle,
find a train, go back, back, back
To our own homes, our own families,
Marry the girls we swapped indulgences with.
Tonight we will bury the farmer and his wife,
Dance on his porch with his daughters,
Have one last tin foil evening of rank and terror,
spit out in the morning those parts of us
That have for these last sodden years been wasted.
I have no history left in me.
Oh tell me when the cheese is ready!
I am going to the barn.
There is bound to be beer hidden there,
In with the saucy cattle and horse dung:
Betrayed by the nonchalance of farm animals
By the suspicious arrangement of the straw,
The dust of productivity, and by my pointlessly
Abused willingness to wrestle my way home.
Ken Poyner divides his time between being an Information Systems manager, eye-candy at his wife's power lifting meets, and an on-again, off-again writer of whatever troubles him at the moment. He has had work in places from Poet Lore to Silver Blade, to Fleeting, Corium, Menacing Hedge, Full of Crow, Emprise Review, and about 70 other places. He has been pestering the public with his writings since the mid 70s.