DRY CRIK Journal

Somewhere a whistle blows, a bell tolls
for someone, a clock strikes a chord
for mankind, but ticks like a bomb.

All but Sundays, the siren sounds
at noon in Exeter, you could hear it
in the vine rows when I was a boy

swamping grape lugs to the avenue
for lidding and stacking on the wagon
bound for the shed and cold storage waiting

for an order from the East Coast.
Last word, the distant siren was final
in a field of poor pocket watches.

Dry grape cane from past year’s
pruning made a fine sundial in the dust –
kids had no need for watches then.

I think I was twelve that first summer
I escaped weeding my mother’s garden
for two-bits an hour, strode with men

for four bits more – big money, big plans
banked in my mind, running with loose
details of what I overheard from work.

It’s how we learned, listening to the
tempo of words, to the rat-tat-tat
of the lidding hammer’s chatter, then

from deep within the steamy vineyard,
someone’s solo becoming chorus
as the sun bore down on us all.