October, you see them propped on porches,
straw, the size and shape

of somebody’s cast off
flannel shirt and hole-in-the knees jeans.
One arm cradles a pitchfork. Sometimes

it’s a couple, side by side in wicker rockers,
she stuffed into a long faded dress,
a flowered hat, a live cat dozing

in her lap, or a whole family
in effigy, their pumpkin heads smiling
at the leaves going down in glory,

our old selves, after the reaping,
what we make of them,

who, otherwise, might have been
as straws in the wind.

A Message from the Editors

Your donation sustains our efforts to inspire joyous rediscoveries.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 7 Number 2, on page 42
Copyright © 2024 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com/issues/1988/10/harvestmen