An Outhouse is Leaning

Modernization slowly caught up.
Gone are tracts of black-dirted
farm land, strait rows and tree lines.
Each place resplendent with farm house
and red barn full of golden hay bales.

Now the land lays empty and rolling,
overgrown with bunched prairie grass
and rampant with thick wild brush.
Crab apple trees slowly rot and lean,
a victim of ceaseless wind and neglect.

In the mostly disappeared gravel drive,
hunter's trucks park and then wander,
leaving behind empty cans and bottles
and the ghosts of Dunkin Donut boxes
to slowly be assimilated into landscape.

An outhouse is leaning like a drunk.
Legions of sagging rotted fence posts
held up by strands of rusted barbwire
slowly sink into a quiet oblivion.
Modernization inevitably catches up.