our crops died a few years back
or decades depending on who you ask
or maybe they never really grew
dutifully wilting to the blade they worshiped
and succumbing to their manicured height
and the inevitability
of joining the dust
that seemed to eat the town
but we didn’t mind too much
because they were easier to pull
having never lived
and we didn’t feel much
when they left us
and now and again
we wondered where they went
sometimes we couldn’t tell
at all
and sometimes those tending
our protrusions
would lie in the shade they made
and talk to them
about losing the farm
or the rain water we didn’t drink
or the regret they sowed
in our leaves
and we wondered if the harvest would stop
someday
or if we would continue to feed people
who had stopped eating
around the time the crops died
