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the sun shines down on clod riddled fields
metal rooves of trailer homes shine like rusted gems
there’s something sweet-sour in the air – like fruit or stale water
the residents of this place are bustling under the baking sun

it’s a greasy sort of day
sweat sheets the back of his neck, staining his shirt brown
the blistering sun has reddened his tired arms
he pauses to wipe the burning wet from his eyes
it’s hot today
his hands grip tightly the top of his old hoe
worn leather protects him from the splinters
but his red arms and pale hands are oddly assorted
the boys in town have taken to calling him mittens
it’s better than the names they used to use
he closes his eyes for a moment and catches his balance
can’t do that again or he may end up flat backed in the dirt
he cusses aloud at this long run on beans
dammit, he hates butterbeans
but as his mama says:
‘they keep the belly full’

the town streets are empty this time of day
storefronts are decorated with fliers and posters
the air is cleaner here, but just so, with smells of baked bread
but the sun flares on in some kind of silent yell

it’s a muggy sort of day
sweat dots the freshly ironed shirt 
the nonexistent breeze does little to soothe her tired head
she pauses to wipe the burning wet from her eyes
it’s hot today
her hands grip tightly the handle of the old iron
careful to avoid the red-hot soleplate
she looks down at her thin shirt with small yellow flowers
it’s seen better days, but she loves this old shirt
the flowers always have a way of making her smile
she closes her eyes for a moment and snaps them back open
can’t do that again or she will never get this ironing done
she cusses aloud at the big stack of shirts
dammit, she hates the laundry
but as her mama says:
‘payin’ work is payin’ work’

the trailer home’s surfaces sparkle, all scrubbed wood and linoleum
the smells of the outdoors settle here also, mixed with acerbic lemon
the walls are lined with pictures of smiling kinfolk
the vision is one of humble pride

it’s another long day
sweat causes her shirt to stick down her back and arms
the long list of stuff to do keeps her from resting her tired bones
she pauses to wipe the burning wet from her eyes
it’s hot today
her hands grip tightly the handles of the large aluminum pot
she’s been making pots of beans for as long as she can remember
where is that boy with the pick for today?
she gazes out the window at her young son in the garden and smiles
taking a couple seconds to also think about her daughter in town
she closes his eyes for a moment and catches her breath
can’t do that again or she'll never get it all done
she cusses aloud at the growing list things to do
dammit, she hates how hard this all is
but as she always says:
‘you have to work to live’

just outside town sits a clump of larger houses
all uniform in grays, blues, and browns with trees to block the sun
porch rockers seem alive with inviting potential
here, flowers and trees fill the smiling noses who live here

it’s a relaxed sort of day
sweat beads on his forehead and he smiles
he raises his glass of iced tea and presses it to his temple
he pauses to wipe the beads from his forehead
it’s hot today
his hands grip tightly the ice-cold glass
he makes a mental note to check in with the cleaners
that young lady is supposed to finish his shirts today
he frowns for a moment, thinking of the news he heard last night
seems like every day the news gets worse and worse
he closes his eyes for a moment and allows himself to dream
he could do this all day
he cusses aloud at a sudden sound nearby
dammit, he hates noise that scare him
but as his mama always said:
‘peace and quiet come at a cost’