On the shoulders
of the main road
a procession of Mennonites
mournfully advance.
Black after black after
black.
They move along solemnly
like a cluster
of weary crows.
On the shoulders
of the main road
a procession of Mennonites
mournfully advance.
Black after black after
black.
They move along solemnly
like a cluster
of weary crows.
Under a blanket of gasoline
I light a match
and blame God.
The man at the end of the table
laughs at a joke
I unintentionally made
as I stick my fork into
something that I cannot pronounce.