Jake's Flea Market

warn   with a boundary stone in your voice
that doesn’t bend that isn’t moved
by how an ox of a son in the field
fifty years ago was crippled
down to an old uncle who limps
to the servants’ door without summons  

uncalled his shadow stooped
by all the scythes he’s swung
by all the straws he’s raked
by all the bundles he’s pitchforked
up on top of the wagon load   the shade
of a hunchback made by the sun newly risen