A Barn’s Complaint

by Sam Less

They don’t fidget,
squat squarely
on the turning earth,
high-walled fortresses
humble cathedrals
or prairie-ark
focused on enduring.

Time will eventually break its back
but the roofline claim
is granted in perpetuity,
gaps interpolated as needed.

Half collapsed
its dignity honored
by neglect,
the inner atmosphere
still humid with exhalations
of heavy animals
and the perfume of dry cured hay.

The siding slats are
another matter,
stolen for their weathered
destined to become
the chic embellishment of
a modern city apartment,
an opening in its place
exposes the reed
that utters this protest.