As a boy, I lidded grape lugs
field-packed when late,
tough-skinned Emperors
were king, chubby bunches
standing in papered boxes,
swamped and stacked
on narrow trailers
pulled by small 9N Fords
to our refrigerated
storage plant
where the grapes held well
through December
where I learned to drive
a forklift unloading fruit
and loading eighteen wheelers
most often at midnight
headed to Eastern buyers—
drivers on coffee and bennies.
One amped with AM radio
distraught with the threat
of the communists taking over—
but I consoled him by saying:
they’re gonna need someone
who can drive a truck.
drycrikjournal 