Man of the house keeps the dogs outside.
They belong. People get the brick & mortar,
the AC; animals get ten acres of wooded
pasture land and soil. Fleas and gophers.
My dogs, like me. I mean, resemble.
Dig pits in the yard and want to be lazy.
Long time since we grew grass on the lawn.
Texas dirt is warm for grass. It’s yellow.
Drought and heat and that spot on which
I piss every morning and the patch died.
It’s not the only withering spot. There is a green
line veering ‘cross the hayfield to the fence,
the septic line, and I know something about
those tanks, on account of my dad,
for whom I’ve taken shovel and unearthed
shit many times. It’s an old house,
that old story, and it demands to be dug up
more frequent than you think you should.
You never fix the septic. We did not.
Just dig it up, work with it, wonder why
the shit line grows weeds and nothing else
between horizons has the miracle of produce.
A kid doesn’t understand work is tough.
The kid is bored. He hates discomfort.
Keeps quiet to the father, but simmers hot
and waits his turn, ineluctably.
Maybe gives thanks, later, when
I’ve washed off the sweat, and sat
still with my anger, that he forced my
hand to labor thus, made me do this work,
made me like this. I mean, resemble.
Akin to.

I won’t ever be completely clean,
but on a certain day, I see the green
patches, our dogs rolling, scratching
in the growth, and I wonder
we didn’t labor in vain.