Mid-July. Red blister in the sky
hotter than a prairie fire and it’s not even
afternoon yet. By eleven-thirty I’m so
dehydrated I’d lean toward the sun
if somebody watered me.
This should be quite enough
to tell you why I’d love to take my ease
and leisure in the coolness of shadows
with a little shiver in them----drain a snow
cone in less than five seconds,
twelve ounces of ice cold Pepsi
in a single gulp, even a sip of warm water
from a hose would help,
make the morning seem
a little kinder----instead of cascading
its incendiary wrath down on me
until I feel like I’m buried alive in Pompeii,
No longer human, almost nothing,
just a machine
as I weed row after row of onions,
tomatoes and beans----don’t stop,
don’t rest, don’t eat because my boss,
the greatest power in the universe,
is watching me. That’s why my hands
are a network of scratches and scars
the color of charred bacon
and not good at healing
as they obsessively yank
ugly green aliens out of the earth.
Why did I take this job?
Pampered kids my age----thirteen,
are supposed to be protected
by child labor laws
or if unemployed stay cool at the pool.
Next summer I’ll work in a cave.
Later that afternoon
a pair of tiny horns sprout
out of a shiny bald spot
on my boss’s head
which is larger than Beethoven’s
and oh yes of course let’s not forget
the horrid little smile
that falls off his face
when he catches me taking a break
ten minutes before quitting time.
“Field, you lazy good-for-nothing,
what am I paying you big bucks for?
Get off your dead ass and back to work.”
Big bucks?
On payday I have no need for a wallet.
Seventy years have passed
since my encounter with that devil,
but I will never forget
the moment his eyes
well-schooled in the art of scowling
and precisely the color of smoke
glared a look straight through me
which implied
that if I didn’t shape up
he’d skin me alive.
***
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