In the post-storm morning
squealing bristled feeder pigs
ready for market heave the trailer
jostle & wait to go—
sharp hooves scritch
meshed metal
heavy young bodies
cramped for air & position Clay, his brother & father
hunch over sodas, shortbread cookies
Long draws from cans
board of trade drones behind
the kitchen filled with early light
AUGUST FUTURES DROPPED 20 CENTS TO CONTINUE
THEIR DOWNWARD TREND MARKETS ARE GLUM
FOR FEEDERS AS WELL LOSING 10 CENTS
—You shoulda sold when Dad an I sold, Clay.
—Then I wasn’t ready, they wasn’t ready, Brett.
—Las week? that’s bullshit, an I told ya so, didn’t we, Dad?
—A
person’d be a damn fool not to sell when they say ‘sell’ Clay
crosses, clicks radio off
draining his last drops of cola.
—Ready? Brett palms a fist of cookies & his can.
—Yep, should probly get them hogs outta
this heat.
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