Blond, you favored your mother,

But named John, after your dad,

You inherited all he had:

A farm in debt, an old hound,

Long-horns and Rhode Island Reds,

Guinea and pea fowl,

A family of kids to be fed,

A well going dry,

Leafhoppers on the vines,

The vines needing to be pruned

And the grapes harvested.

Seventeen when he died,

You locked yourself in the cab

Of his cattle truck and cried

For days. On the third day

You must have resolved to keep

The bill collectors at bay,

Keep the farm going,

Keep the family fed.

You must have promised him

You’d do whatever you both knew

Would still need doing.

Anyway, that’s what I guess,

Seeing that’s what you did,

A skinny high-school kid,

Shouldering the whole mess.