Ever since the wife left and took the twins and the baby, pretty much all I got is farming hay.
I tried my luck with cattle, but most of them didn’t survive the trip out from South Dakota, and I’d already spent two years of hay just shipping ‘em.
I’m no drinker, but I hit the glue pretty hard.
Wife would come home after working a double shift at Town and Country and see me alone at the table with an empty bottle of Elmer’s and crusty tracks running ‘cross the table where I sniffed it up.
Of course the twins would be throwing stones at cars by the highway and the baby, well, she just lay there in the crib not making a sound. Judgin’ me, I suppose.
They’re all gone now, along with my Costco-sized bottle of glue. I’ll get more, but it hurt that they took it. Insult to injury and all that.
On some real bad nights I take that Gorilla Glue and tip my head back for the terrible high that will no doubt take my life, but then I stop, put the bottle down and cry. I can’t throw it against the wall–that’s just a waste of good glue–but damn if I don’t try and hide it from myself for next time.
All’s left is my hay.
Planting the seed is nothing, and the irrigation’s been in place for years.
The real work comes when I bale, but I got a tractor for that goes by the name “Mr. Fucks-Em-Up” cause that’s what my pa called puttin’ a bale together, fuckin’ up the hay. He meant it positive like.
The ranchers buy my hay for next to nothing.
Some say I could make a killing off of it if I just quit the glue, but that’ll be the day.
Knowin’ it’s boiled horse hoof don’t matter neither.
Makes me want it more, I reckon.
