On a road of dirt
and rubble
you will pass farm after farm-miles
of good earth, tilled and labored
by the hands of strong men.
Their sun worn
backs cross fields:
acres born again each year
beneath the unforgiving sky.
Each morning they
rise, servants
to the land, slaves to the grain.
Every stalk cut
brings them closer
to the dirt.
A cloud of dust
sweeps across as a truck speeds past.
It's heading west,
racing the sun,
trying to find any way out of here.
Soon the truck is
nothing more
than a speck on the horizon,
a period on a last sentence.
Soon this place
will be nothing more
than a memory for the driver-
still young enough to forget.
But his parents
will remember.
Each night his
mother will save
a place for him at the table
and in her prayers.
The father will
mutter to himself,
comments of complaint
because he grows tired
with every sunrise.
At night he sleeps
in the next room-
alone, they wait for the night
and the earth to devour them.