—for Les Murray

He only traveled as far as the return
for milking demanded—not as much
chore as bane handed down like a tin
pail and as hard to shake off as mud
in the tread of a boot. Borrowed car,
movie in town, light of day swinging
in, a reminder, and by the credits’ end
his bladder an udder in need of release.
In rain. In snow. In unwrung summer.
Moaning animus of rank routine: splash
of a thin white stream, his clenching
and unclenching fist. When the war
began, he was first in the county to enlist.