Squatting 

Robert Morgan 

The men in rural places when

they stop to talk and visit will

not stand, for that would make it seem

they’re in a rush. Nor will they sit

on ground that might be cold or wet.

Instead they squat with dignity

on heels close to the ground and chat

for hours. And while they tell and answer,

or listen, hunkered out of wind,

they draw with sticks in dirt a map

to illustrate a story or

show evidence for argument.

They sketch out patterns, write on dirt

and doodle vague arithmetic,

who never will take up a pen

on page or slate or canvas. They

will absentmindedly make shapes

and figures of their reveries

and rub them out again complete

to give their art no status of

attention in the casual toss

of discourse, open forum of

community, out there on bare

familiar ground where generations

have squatted, called it ownership.