The Man with No Mule

I've done the figures five times,
worn my pencil to a stub,
and still can't come out ahead.
The numbers swim like fish across my eyes.
Even when I net them,
they squiggle out of reason.

I make my mark and break my back
for what I'll give away.
Mister sells me seed,
sets the price at harvest,
and I keep half the crop—
but the money I owe him
grows like a blister in my shoe
until it feels hard to walk
and the air gets tight inside my chest.

Now Mister says we'll have to leave
when the season ends, give
the mule to go against our debt.
I have no fondness
for those long ears pinned back
and that stubborn streak, but Lord knows
how I'll start again without him.

The man with two mules
can almost plow out a living.
A man with one can just get by.
But the man with no mule
will hack at the earth by hand
and dig himself deeper.