I had to tell her
about the gardeners
out of work, looking
for roses to prune,
green lawns to mow—
the fallow fields of dust
without crops to pick,
pack and haul to town
by truck, about how lean
the San Joaquin’s become.
Moonlighting, someone’s
hooking-up to hydrants
in Lemoore—a new market
for semi short-hauls
anywhere you want to go.
In the deep powder, shotgun
barrels at each trough
waiting for dove, all
signs of the hunt erased
by the wild at dawn.
I had to tell her
we’re OK, better off
than most—just to have
her think of more
than herself for a change.
drycrikjournal 