After a long life
I fill the space
of yesterday’s endeavors
with misplaced memories,
hidden in the refuse
of persistent progress
to be replayed
in vivid detail
as if in order, like
Carrol Peck’s red
five-cent Coke machine
in the Naranjo packing house
before it burned down
at the railhead—its line
of women sizing, packing oranges,
bustling traffic of Okie boys
swamping field boxes
with hand trucks
across the wooden floor
for the next iced-down railcar
heading East.
Red (the only color in the place)
with its white 5¢ script
marking from where I’ve come.
drycrikjournal 