once inside a woman s heart
tell no sweet lies

she loves the unlovable

so hold her closer

kiss her tenderly

thunder and lightning
a slow dance
and she dreams only of you

once inside a woman's heart

the touch sadness from her hand
heartaches wrapped in silence
only women bleed

If I were the man in my dreams,
Your feet would be back on my floor,
Or up in the air once again,
With nothing much said for an hour.
Such truth in the night is released
That morning seems all but sincere,
Your absence like abstinence preached--
A sermon I don't wish to hear.
Long afternoon offers its legs,
And shadows of telephone poles,
That slant like a man of ripe age.
Forgive me my various goals--
Your pleasure was always the plan,
The dream of a wide awake man.

Scant moments after sun rise they appear,
Shadows in a distant field,
Moving like ghosts upon a sea
Of shimmering dewy green.
They toil, bent onto their work,
No music, no joyful banter,
Only their laboring breaths,
Visible in the morning air.

An aged tractor crawls along,
Out in front of them,
They stoop and toss yellow squash,
Into it's trailer bin.

Fifty acres by Noon they're told,
"Get it done, or get gone!"
"No Medical Insurance here,
No Retirement Plan,
No promises or guaranties,
It's work for the moment,
Only if WE please."
Yells out the Overseer!

Noon brings the heat,
Another fifty acres of zucchini.
Nothing changes,
Not even the scenery.
Hats and hoods,
Long sleeves and scarves,
Shields from the sun, now
the heat they must endure.

Still they stoop and toss,
With ****** hands and painful spines.
"Get it done today or no work for you tomorrow.
Don't get hurt there ain't no Workman's Comp."
They are harshly reminded.

I watch and read a book upon my shady porch,
My promenade to the world.
Morning coffee giving way,
To afternoon's ice cold Lemonade.
I observe from my distant knoll,
like a unfettered bird in the sky,
detached and alone.
As if I and the people in the field,
Reside on different worlds.

I sit there in my orb, with soft hands and body,
The products of a privileged life being a Native Son.
Worked in three piece suits, fresh shirt and ties,
An education, crafty sales ability, my convenient alibis.

They come from the South,
From poverty and dead ends,
A border or two away,  
Doing  work that only slaves would do,
Back in yesterday.
To put food on our tables,
Grease the wheels of our industries.
Put meager food in their mouths,
and fuel their own life's fantasy's.
Most do not speak our language,
Yet still our life they crave.
We do not welcome them as we should,
They must sneak in like thieves in the night,
Just to be our willing serfs.

What real difference them to me?
Geographic locations of birth, little more.
That's not really hard to see, If only
we stop and care to show some empathy

A ****** to their hardship,
I watch humbled and inspired,
This display of their commitment,
Their indomitable human spirit.

The hours pass and still they follow,
Up and back crossing the fields,
Chasing that same dammed tractor,
Walking miles, going no place at all.

While I've done other things,
Leisure, cardio stationary bike,
(No need to take a hike.)
Intellectual stimulation enjoyed,
Eaten twice and rested well.
But not so those people across the way,
They now merely indistinct bent shapes,
Upon, an ever darkening landscape,
Smudges of smoldering black forms,
In a vast field of breeze tossed olive drab.

Dawn to dusk being their fate,
Their tomorrows all the same.
Hard work and a willingness to do it,
Their hoped for passports, to "Possibility",
and for staying in the game.

I chose a place you might find me,
Settled in and opened a road
Without making it too easy
Traveled,  waiting like some misplaced
Monk, who hasn't vowed to give up
Anything, knowing it would all be gone
In the devil's time and we'd sure
Have less to show for it all than
A preacher's feast on Sunday when
The prodigal daughter needed
A rededication and spoke
Her mind instead, saying this place
Could be Calvary, you know it
Maybe is.  I wouldn't be shocked.