Living Like A Recluse

The black SUV crept down the country road,
The old farmer became wary
Hearing the rocks pop away from the tires,
Seeing the arms sticking out of the windows
Like spider legs,
Writhing and pointing,
He could just barely hear the conversation
From his hidden vantage point
Under the old cardboard box,
He liked to sleep there in the early afternoon
Then get up late at night to prowl around
Looking for a drink, and maybe a lady friend,

“We could build a nice horse barn there, honey,”
He heard the woman say,
“Yes, and a big in-ground pool over there,”
The old farmer cringed and rustled the leaves,
He hoped they hadn’t heard him,
He liked it cool and quiet and a little damp,
He also knew that this would happen,
Foretold by the discarded Heineken beer can,
Before the onslaught of development
There had only been Busch Lite
Or Old Milwaukee cans,
He liked to drag those into his lair
To smell and taste the rancid beer
A drop at a time,

The old farmer, skin brown from years in the Sun,
Crept out from under the cardboard,
Brought out the fiddle that he kept on his back,
Began playing a hoedown,
Heading straight for the city folks
His beady eyes trained on the arm sticking out the window,
They didn’t see him, they never do, he thought
As he gave the arm a prick with the end of the bow,
There, that takes care of that,
He said to himself as he backed into his house,
The old fiddle slung on his back,
Crawling into the Old Milwaukee can
As the black SUV sped back into town.