kept the old farm hand. He’d

thumbed enough dirt off potatoes.

Seen hailstones pock the dirt road.

Watched a coyote rip a dog on the trail.

Had keys to the locks, knew

which windows to prop.

The past owner made baseball bats,

the ash billets shipped from Spokane.

The old farm hand

had to wave down the truck

and tip the driver, then carry

the bats, wrapped like bread,

to the basement.

He would eat dinner with the old owners,

but the new family only invited him once.

Squash rolls spread on the kitchen table.

Too much salt in the mushroom soup.

He had pumpkin stuck in his boots

and must have tracked orange

into the house. He picked at the flesh

with the tip of his knife.

The new owners didn’t like that

but they would get used to it.

Good help was rare.