Dirt Farmer

We never had a mule on my Papa’s farm
though we had every other kind of creature
a farm in the Piedmont might have, horses
and cows, pigs and goats, chickens,
rabbits, even guinea hens for a while,
and though my Granny and Papa called
each other Mule often enough
and worked like mules and often seemed
like mules, not quite one thing or the other,
and though the farm was only a few
miles from the Promised Land where
the government gave every freed slave
an acre and a mule though they never
gave my Papa’s daddy nothing
though he was as poor as the poorest
Negro, dirt poor they said, meaning
the floors of his house were dirt, meaning
that in the roughest times he might
have eaten dirt, meaning the color
of his hands and feet and face were the same
as the dirt he worked in , walked on, lived in.
Probably just a way to say
We’re sorry though as for that
it seemed a pretty poor apology,
expecting dignity to be returned
through either end of a mule.

**

Existential

What is it about a mule
that makes us stop and stare?
To the average eye they are not
unbeautiful, but they lack
the nobility of horses, impressive bulk
of cows, cantankerousness of goats.
Yet there is something in
their imperfections, their curious eyes,
stolid stance, occasional refusal
to tow the line, scant hope
for posterity that seems familiar,
makes us think maybe they
more than any other
stand a chance to understand us.