Jornalero

He stood with the other jornaleros,
a stoic sans social security card,
a mute statue for hire,
to pull weeds, nail shingles, carry freight
at far below the going rate.

I buy coffee and breakfast burritos,
hearing the crescendo of throttled engines,
as the motorcycle squad arrives for coffee
and burritos, all smiles, sharp at eight,
sightless of crime against the state.

I avoid the persecutorial dark eyes
of the motorcycle squad in jack boots,
the chunky poster men for the white race.
My eyes are downcast for a deal in land,
I clutch a cell phone in a white hand.

The pickup trucks are coming
for the jornaleros.
The jornalero mutters agreement to terms.
He's off to do what on earth he can
in a free country, a free man.




Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 628 times
Written on 2007-01-11 at 23:03

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Such is life, isn't it. I too have spent most of my livelihood as a hired hand; if only to ground me to the grass roots - hope that reflects in my poetry as well.
2012-05-18