Out by the verge picking the
Cucumbers he grew in the dust
Of the road his head low in
The extent of passing beams of
Cars and his hands making slow
And violently abrupt motions in
Turn as he sought and cropped
The fattest and the furthest ones
And as we watched as children
From the upstairs window half
Occluded by the sickened halo of
Out father's old sycamore and saw
His hands fasten on the tubers
We knew some berserk was there
Working on old Grace in the dark,
Farming at midnight and his old
Girl gone and his car written off
And his hands irregular with white
Polyps and knots and growths the
Fruit of his absurd agriculture.
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