Migrant Work Poem by John W. McEwers

I once managed to wrangle a teaching position.
Craig's. List.

I taught two children living in eastern Indiana.
Corn. Kids.

Mathematics was they're favorite, not mine, I like words.
Add. Nauseum.

They're father wasn't there, just me, and they're ma.
Dad. John.

I stayed in the inn, then the barn, then the house.
Warm. Bed.

We spent two semesters, then who was the teacher.
Me? Them.

Indiana homeland is truly where the heart is.
Minus. John.

Summer break has now lasted four seasons.
Craig's. List?

Please, no soliciting me.