The Farm
You were only 5 or 6 in human years
before your parents did me a favor:
sending me off to the farm.
Don’t worry they really did -Â
a lovely farm with rows of corn and chickens
down in Ohio in Amish countryÂ
where there were horses and buggies -Â
no electric, no street lights.Â
Just brilliant stars and meteor showers.
A quiet place with room to roam.
No leashes or fences. Or terrorizing children.Â
They fed me well and didn’t bother me much.Â
I napped most days on the front porch,Â
eyeing the postman.Â
Do you remember when I was on a leash,
tethered to a zip line between two trees?Â
You would wake me and taunt meÂ
and I would chase after you as you ran.
And just as I was about to bite your little behind,
you’d veer and dive out of reach.Â
The leash jerking me back -
hind hips flying up - over my head,
twisting in the air, choking myself.
And you’d laugh and laugh.Â
That wasn’t cool.Â












