Rows

Grandpa’s garden spilling past its fence line,
five bushel baskets, three laundry pails,
four cardboard boxes waiting.
My brothers and I straddling a row each,
our bare backs white as biscuit dough
flat against the morning sun,
young hands grappling
for deep red tomato flesh and
fat fingers of snap beans.

Flies biting through back sweat.
Pa on his walker, pacing the grounds
with a dragging shuffle
like a chain-gang boss, already
tasting the crunch of squash
and okra between his teeth.
Granny Mary in the kitchen wiping
spider webs from cool cellar jars.

Our baskets filling fast, lugging
through coffee-colored soil,
tater bugs hitching rides
eager for a larger garden, thick
with fancy baking potatoes
the size of melons,
leaves like fifty dollar bills.

First to reach the other side wins—never me.
Pa yelling reasons why I’m falling behind.
Two brothers sucking popsicles on the steps.
For me, thirty feet of onions to go.
“Don’t pull up those small ones!”