Wake up, dope head, wake up,
the first warm day catches you napping,
you sit sun-struck on a sheltered stone,
my god, the fence post will shoot a bud
before you do, look at the wheel ruts,
the same marks you left last fall
when you came through the gate, remember?
Mist and fog in the air, pheasants
snug in the grove, the lungs of space
sucking in the air to blow out that
cold north wind and you, old aching bones,
driving home the last load of corn.
Well, where is it now? And you, where
are you? The gate lies right where you
left it, no one cut down the willow tree,
but now the sun wrings the chill
out of the day’s breath, routs out frost,
sends rain fingers deep—break out
the plow and turn the field over,
shake out a few seeds, start dreaming
of those big fat ears of corn you
love like money, come on, sleeping jesus,
get off your butt and see if you can rise again.
