Like a Dung Cart in the Heat of Summer

In case anyone was wondering, I currently live in the middle of nowhere. Durham, CT, to be exact. Granted, it’s not half so bad as Lewisburg, but it, too, is quaint and rural in that (almost dangerous) Podunk sort of way. It’s the kind of place that makes you perpetually sleepy, one that cushions you from the rest of the madly buzzing metropolitan world. It’s also the kind of place that has just one main pot-holed route from here to everywhere else, and that route, my friends, brings you right through the middle of a dairy farm.

You know you live in the middle of nowhere when it’s a hot summer afternoon and you’re driving on Rt 68 with the music blaring and the windows down and you get stuck directly behind a big ol’ tractor hauling cow poop. A sopping, slopping cart full of dung for your eyes (and nose) only, for miles on end. Yes, my friends, it happened to me and it was gross. But as I gagged and coughed and fumbled furiously to roll up my windows, I couldn’t help but remember a lovely poem I discovered last summer at the June Seminar, and it went a little something like this:


by Chelsea Minnis

I like poetry but it is a dung cart. I like being in love but that is a dung cart too. I have to be content with things that are dung carts although I really want something that is not a dung cart. Something that will allow me to live when my frivolousness is like death…

Unfortunately for me, everything is going to be called a dung cart. Such as: kissing someone and then not listening to what they’re saying. I don’t care what they’re saying! They’re a businessman! A business man is not a dung cart…

I am always thinking of a dung cart. Dung is neatly piled on it! Even if I look around I can still see clearly that everything is a dung cart & I too am a dung cart.

Dung cart after dung rolling by……

Anyway, I like dung carts. My favorite things are dung carts. Dung carts with dung falling off them.

So. The universe sending me a cosmic message, telling me to snap out of my lazy bucolic stupor and put pen to page? Probably not. But it’s interesting to think about, n’est-ce pas?


3 thoughts on “Like a Dung Cart in the Heat of Summer

  1. I read this a while ago, but didn’t leave a comment for some reason! This entry makes me smile and think about the mixed pleasures of driving through the countryside (near Lewisburg or in MD) with the windows down during the summer, and suddenly smelling fresh cow dung spread on the fields. mmmm….

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