The tractor wheel's bride

 duty controls footsteps
guides her down the same path
until footprints became a path
and the path inevitably became a trench

The familiar labyrinth of one woman's routine
each corner presenting a predictable sight 
as she rounds it into that part of the day
walking in the air of her existance

repeating as if to affirm
even as offspring deaf
even as husband transfixed
by his own midlife inadequacies

that trench a frown
Constantly downward
and into the mud
and duty
Pretty martyr

The trench runs thin
familiar and dim
a purchase metal and shiny
helps you forget your heart
That calls like telephones once did