Buying horses and cows at the country stock-auction occupies
the man each Monday; he stands clear of the other farmers
who chew tobacco and laugh and joke as they move along from
pen to pen among bawling calves and squealing pigs.

Instead, whether out of rule or custom, with an unlit cigarette
dangling from his lip, he observes the stock, strokes a calf's nose,
rubs a horses shank, looks for the pristine among the lot,
noting faults, and estimating his bid and ignoring ammonia-reeking air.

He proceeds with slow deliberation, bid by bid,
carefully writing on thin paper in clear blue ink;
paper folded, sharply creased, one way then the other,
he drops it into a covered box, setting his mark.

Then, quits for the day and no longer a prisoner of habit,
he browses through the second hand wagons, the plow,
the gear and harnesses, the household items, dishes and clothing,
and bids on a blue vase for the woman and a metal cot for the child.