When he stands in the Hof
with his strong back against
a wagon full of manure
from the stalls he has
cleaned with the pitchfork
whose handle he grasps
firmly with both hands

the earthy grin that is
close to a smile tells
you he would much rather
carry the sweet scent of animal
shit in his wide-open nostrils
through his daily chores

than inhale the poisons
of the city or the stale
air of the suburbs

and he would much rather
kill with his hands the meat
that he eats rather than buy
a package wrapped in plastic
over styrofoam in the supermarket

and though his grin resembling
a smile reveals that his teeth
have been worn down to nubs
with spaces widening between them

barrel-chested Adolf Müller,
rumpled hat on his head,
says in no uncertain but
unvoiced words that

he stands squarely
in the middle of his
family's Bauernhof
on cobblestones that have
stains he has no intention
whatsoever of hosing away

and there is simply no way
he will ever budge
from this place he has
known and loved for
as long as he has lived.

-Norbert Krapf

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