A blue sectional sits curving,
feeling like twilight, smelling of dusty cattle.
Exhausted from hard work in wheat fields,
It watches the cluckers run around
the giant dirty cottonwood, whose roots
are crushed by Olds and Ford.
Its velvet, crushed too,
and smoothed and stained by
grease and coffee, still comforts.
Cushioning the blow and bluster of fall,
blights and bad harvest years.
Some days sooty from the woodburner,
and heavy-laden, its arm breaks.
A bit greyer, it soldiers on.