Handkerchief

The hipster blows his schnoz

thick burgundy plastic eyeframes, a Mac,

minimum drip coffee purchase, furrowed brow

stuffs the snotty thing into his jeans

This ain’t no farm, bro

You are not

my father,

and that is not his hanky

You are not

in a field,

far from tissues

You are not

wiping grease from a tractor’s gear

or the run from a grandchild’s nose

You are not

suddenly cradling a five-year-old me

bleeding from the mouth

scanning the ground for three missing teeth

You are not

sorting hogs in the winter,

planting seeds in the spring

You are not

riding a lawnmower in the summer,

Jack Russell on the side

You are not

tapping your toe to polka

in the fall

You are not

nursing a tender shoulder

in a partially broken chair

keeping your mouth shut

You are not

steering a truck through Korea,

spitting snoose in Prairie du Chien

This is not 1952

You are not

eating ground ham with Mert and Romie

struggling into overalls

learning a new remote

You have not lost your book of numbers,

you are not digging for your wife’s cell

You are not a driver,

once more looking for his road

♦