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dafremen
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In the streaked earthbound throng
along the straight harrow-ruled
furrows breaking the soil fighting
for space in the sunlight
in a tractor rich part of town,
a man with brown skin
and practically unintelligible English
slurred by the Bud Light
rising from his breath in the
torpid September
puffs a quizzical sigh
that approximates
the well worn sound
of a blast freezer's door seals -
a certain, distant icy closure
on behalf of our ball-capped merchant of death
whose calloused, green-stained fingers say,
"Ho ho ho. Green Giant, bitch."
A few feet away from him on a Sunday
in the seating area of a grocery store deli
far from the glint of the pallid fluorescents
winking off the doors in the frozen foods aisle
a man in cowboy hat, ostrich skin boots
and matching leather belt
listens in on a conversation
which is not his own:
"Do you want frozen peas? Or green beans?"
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141118
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