Barn

A graveyard of empty whiskey bottles,
curled, browned labels coated with dust.


A farmer drank in this dirt basement, alone,
wind chapped face illuminated by a kerosene lantern,
swollen fingers forever  clutching the
glass neck of his half drained bottles.

I drink ***** in the renovated kitchen,
lit by dimmed lights, gentle shadows
dancing across the glossy hardwood floor.
I look out at the dark bodies of trees
swaying, uneasy in the night breeze.

Sometime after midnight,
the farmer’s ghost
stumbles up the creaking staircase behind me,
to our bed.