American Pastoral
       

The mule deer flinches at the riverbank,
pulls out her golden watch, gasps, and runs back
to the forest, which has begun to tick.
Overhead, a chicken hawk spies the clock,
stops work, and merges into traffic.
Upon the stroke of midnight, my bitter stout,
fearing the stock market's decline, goes flat.
Corpses in their coffins try to rise at half past three.
Even this breeze has got some better place to be.

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Copyright © 2014 James Gleason Bishop All rights reserved
from Rock & Sling
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission