Mom calls it Grapes of Wrath.
Four men in front of a truck,
three in wide-brimmed hats.
Pa Guy wears bib overalls,
Billy’s shirt hits his hip
like a Chinese jacket.
Dad wears coveralls, dark glasses.
Buddy leans on the tail-gate
of the truck, his boot toe
rises slightly from the ground.
All I know of this snapshot now
is that Buddy will soon be dead.
And, it’s dinnertime,
the sun straight up.
light washes Buddy’s head,
hat brims shade the other faces.
Originally published in Pearl Magazine.
Cadence Collective: Long Beach Poets 