“Smartassed kid,”
the foreman grumbled,
throwing his cards down
on the worn, wood plank
Outside the wagon window,
a cloud broken sun awoke
from the rain. A clatter of spades
announced our return to the ditch.
That smartassed college kid
shared those Italians’ bread and beer,
filthy stories and Puccini.
They knew every word and could recite “Paradiso.”
Before we got central air
in that dawn of unlimited powering
of the nuclear family, I slept through the hottest nights
cool as our kitchen ice trays.
That was my second Summer where
I learned everything
about what the hardest jobs in the world were.
And those friends I left digging in the ditch.
_______________
This is the fifth of seven poems from my portfolio for the 2020 Poetry Workshop I participated in, under the direction of instructor Eli Burrell.
| Copyright © 2021 by Bob Boldt |
I found the image of playing cards--spades--totally cool when it became another kind of spade--the one for digging. Great job, Bob!
ReplyDeleteI like to think of this poem as an honorarium to those friends left digging in the ditch.
ReplyDelete