Middle Age by Tom Fugalli
At night the scarecrows come down and walk through the wheat field. I don’t know what they’re up to and am not interested in finding out. Still it bothers me to hear them step into the wheat with their silent feet. I want to leap out of bed and shout, “I live nowhere near a farm!” But this horse blanket is too heavy and my mouth is filled with straw.
How long have I walked
absently down these rows? Whose
face is this? Whose clothes?
Tom Fugalli’s poetry has appeared in various publications including Exquisite Corpse, Forklift Ohio, Opium Magazine, and The Western Humanities Review. He lives in New Rochelle, New York.