Two poems by Stephen Page published a while back in Renovation Journal, edited by Kate Hanson Foster.
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by Stephen Page
On the patio, the cat waits,
meows, waits. She only comes when
the architects are not reconstructing
the Red House that the Tattler thought
was for him. The Blonde Collie Bitch
lies in heat upon the lawn. She hides
from that Black Bastard Sunday.
The Capataz house is empty,
and cold. It no longer electrifies
the fence that separates the Bulls
from the Cows. The Excuse Maker
has returned and partially corrupted
El Misionero, who with his blue
poncho to fend off cold, walks through
the predawn dew in quest of the horse
that can be ridden but is not broke.
El Misionero counts cows and gives
change. His river-black hair and brown
eyes lure the cows to calve and
the Palomino to pony. He must vacate
the Transit House and live
in the Central Home without lights.
by Stephen Page
Cows spilled out onto a moonless road,
and the white truck parked itself in front
of your home. Your scarlet jacket drapes
its seat. The tractor would not move and dug
itself deeper into mud. Fence posts raced
a thousand meters, then walked back, losing
line. The coffeed nightmares night not rain
but pen unplanned plans on paper. My saddle you
horse and barbwire yours, the nails unstucking
crude leather. My salty lasso you snapped
in two, cat-o-nining your shoulders and
back. The leather rack must be lifted
to shade, its sunned stench
olfactoring office windows. Electrify
lot sixteen, and fatten uncorned cows.
Lot ten’s drainage ditch caves in
both sides of the road and snakes
to replicate unwooded cement worm
tubes. Cereal Man pushed our combined
road further onto my property,
and while you slept, I went
wading into the wheat, searching
for the cow.