In This County
When the women in this county
hang their laundry out to dry
Every stain is bleached.
Even the insides of the white-washed barns
smell of sweet hay.
The men drink themselves silent and crazy
out of bottles hidden in streams and logs
until the stump fences stampede.
Then the men stumble home
to knock wasps out of the eaves,
fold sheets and wait for the gypsy
who last week stole a setting hen.