The Sleeper

His name was August
and he paused in his rage
to have sons.

His failures claimed him
and he spoke among men
with his fists.

The rule on his farm
was hard work
and he brooked no waste.

With the same harsh haste,
he planted his children
and corn.

Now day's work done,
he comes shoulder-bent
to the barn

and there is found,
cheek cupped
in a work hardened hand.

It's as if he sleeps
on a stack of the feed sacks he fills
and will wake to smells

of manure and milk
and fresh hay
and the breath of cows.