Inside the farm house a farmer
washes up after work in the field all day.
I admire the care he gives to clutch grease,
the grime dug from beneath fingernails,
vigorous scrubbing of his knuckles and palms,
the attention paid to cracked cuticles.
I would like to have a beer with him,
perhaps watch the news and after the news,
ask about alfalfa.
Does he love the word ‘alfalfa’?
Does he say it to himself during the day?
Can he hear echoes of Spain and Arabia?
Does he hear its rhyme scheme?
Its musical play of ‘al’s’ and ‘fa’s’?
Can he feel its somersault tumble on his tongue?
“It could be a trill in Christmas carol like
falalalala,” I suppose. “But it’s not. It’s alfalfa!
A grass. Fodder. Cow food.”