The radio is dead except for the hum

The radio is dead except for the hum

of a man reading prices for cattle and wheat.

The miles have turned my brain into something numb,

just a pair of hands and two heavy feet.

A silo stands tall with a coat of red rust,

shouting a name that was lost in the vote.

The gravel is kicking up clouds of gray dust

and the heat is a collar tight on my throat.

The sun is a coin that won't ever drop,

pinned to a sky that is empty and wide.

There isn't a reason or place left to stop,

so I keep the corn on my right-hand side.