My Father’s Trips to Town

What a shy gentleman he was,
in the field, working,
in the church, silent,
unwilling to sing,

and in the bank,
head bowed, bargaining
with only the promise
of harvest.

Yet, in the bar, loosened
by liquor, laughing,
dice-shaking,
dare-taking beyond his reach;

at last, returning home after dark,
he walked alone, scolded,
to the barn
to milk the burdened cow

who lashed him in his shame
with her piss-wet tail
as he sat, cursing,
on the three-legged milking stool.