Bending in the heat,
you've picked me like fruit,
tossed me into a wicker basket
and sold me at a roadside stand.
If I were as fortunate
to have hawk eyes like yours,
legs like yours to run, and
hands to grasp and
pull from the root
with a mind to sell for profit,
I would set up an awning of green
park a chair on the seam of a country road
and wait for the first taker.
Exchanging you for cash, I'd zip
my wallet, hearing the song of the
cash drawer turning the day into dusk.
Shielding my eyes, I'd watch
the wheels of that poor sucker's car spin,
kicking all that red dust into the sky.
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