Turnip Poem

And barefoot I arrive,

giddy on stupidity,

merry going ‘round this land

with the farmed intelligence of a turnip,

and I am glad for the world,

I am glad for the black dirt on my feet,

the black hair on my head,

black sumac leaves.

Stay back, boy! Can’t you see

I am obliged to nobody

but the soil and the copper sun.