He’d climb surely from the musty cab
Of the strong forest green international
With a matching rounded tank strapped
Sturdy on the firm wooden flatbed.
He’d stand, with a half drank beck’s,
Between the house he’d built and the corrugated dirt road,
He’d stand like status – poised, arched, victorious –
And piss a little rainbow into the dust at his feet.
And from his feet, at the end of the little rainbow,
Would rise a glimmering cloud.
The setting sun, across the street, would lay his shadow
Long behind him and set the whole scene on fire.
My mother took issue blatantly,
Yet I never questioned it.