the combine working on me,
R.P Mcmurphy,
slowly crumbling my edges,
leaving me dull
and intoxicated.

the combine hunting me,
a man,
a man seemingly without place or plan,
no correlation of my destination

a man, hard to track,
hard to break down,
a man,
a free man.

the sounds of their machines
make it hard to see,
let alone breathe.
More specifically,
for a man like me.
You know the kind,
with his roots separate
from the leaves.

A man
you never truly,
see.