Why I want to farm goats, and: My Girl

Why I want to farm goats

Stories ofpouring the kettleon the turkey

and teasingthe eldestby hiding her books;

with my childhood walksthrough sheet metal shedson frosty mornings

seeing foxes, magpiesand pheasantshung from the rafters

and a grandmotherchopping wood

the dogsat her skirt.

My Girl

Although I never saw usmaking music togetherabout functional relationships,

it's still a party gameto guess whyyou will start crying.

And it's against my own senseto keep going to your parties,where the journeyis always longand highlight of the nightthe kitchen on fire.

But months after,when we've both forgottenthat you were cryingand I've forgottenif I was responsibleand if your tearswere justified,this time.

I awake at ungodly hourstake rural busessleep on the floor you offerand feel guilty,for satisfying my large appetitewith food that requiresa knife and fork to eatwhile you settlefor a bag of chips(as you can't cook since the fire).

And we'll strike alightold memorieswhere we did much the sameas we do now,yet back then we were youngerand this all passed as a good time.

We were thirteen and fourteen together,not boyfriend and girlfriend

and that was enough for each other,it's worth keeping.

But someday, let's meet where I liveand go out for dinneryou can sleep in the spare roomand hopefullyI'll be lucky enoughnot to make you cry.