Oct/Nov 2023  •   Poetry  •   Special Feature

Misery Whip

by Scott Burwash

Public domain image


Misery Whip

Dusk pries its way into the valley spilling over branches and grass
as the men amass to claim what they deserve. The hog boss sits on
a stump, filling outreached hands with silver coins. A felling saw lays
dormant against an ancient cedar as heavy boots mar the ground.
Tomorrow comes too soon.