Green crowds the rot-brown houses,
Green turning brown with drought;
Grease bakes to the mechanic's sun-brown skin.
His beer bleeds out his sweat pores,
Rolls over his dirt-bare back;
He mutters curses at the rust-browned
Chevy half-ton, near dead of abuse.
She's claimed the shade,
Sprawled on the front porch swing
Like the first-time pregnant
Newlywed she'll soon be.
Kenny Rogers sings false cheer
On scratchy AM radio
Originating in air-condition land,
Next door to endless summer.
She's dreaming the liar's white
Of next week's wedding gown.
He's dreaming summer nights,
Squeaking mattress, the two a.m. breeze.
Great-granddad's ghost scowls
From the frame of a fallen miner's shack,
Remembering work, John L., the union,
Cursing another election day lost.
