Wobbly-legged, we rise from lunch
and chardonnay, the capstone
on a noon-time tasting.
Best to pause, recover
equilibrium, gaze across
the vineyard rows, reminiscent
of corduroy or shopping aisles.
In the middle distance, a farm,
hot-houses where flowers grow,
row on roses, all of it—
grapes and blossoms—handled
by Mexican workers shipped
north for the growing season.
With cool weather on the threshold
they’ll be packed back where they belong
year-over-year (eight months here
four there) a rootless life.
I hear the wives of two have left.
What they say of absence is a lie,
a violence done to soldiers
and now to migrant workers too.
In the far distance, on a high hill,
an observatory, a keen eye
gazing at ancients suns, honing
the science of avoidance.
Wobbly-legged no longer,
we return to our temporary
home—a rental in the city—
past the church where five or six
smoke crack on the brown grass,
past the skateboard park
where a kid tokes and grins,
past a mall where we ease our
discomfort with fresh souvenirs.
Download the complete collection of poems and accompanying photographs as a pdf book.