Reclusive between fields and horses
drenched of rain
whiskey and grain
his rolling logic
is lost on slow visits
green death
Plow blades furrow the Earth
into miry, shallow graves
Fasting for days from interaction
The townspeople shun
the mysterious man on the knoll
imbalanced inside with his own chemistry
His seclusion becomes tavern fodder
Curious crimson red faces
hover above rock glasses
slurring through gin and rye eyes
Brooding patrons in a drunken plot
to visit him with lowered inhibitions
oblivious that a strangers knock
on his November door
and a word shared
Give that man a conversation
and he will dine like the kings…