Dust

They smiled and traded knowing nods

as they discussed how some particular code or brand

dominated their chosen market space.

And I remembered my mother's stories

about living in a grain elevator

when the sand blew from the place

where she was born -Muleshoe Texas-

to Oklahoma City.

And how they crammed five kids,

two changes of clothes,

some pots and pans,

a hammer, a saw and a hoe,

into a drive-away Buick to be delivered

to some doctor out in Pasadena

before they headed over the Grapevine

to Visalia.

And those guys waiting at the corner

for the light to change.

In their scuffed shoes and rumpled slacks,

and their cultivated week-old whiskers

and their hundred thousand dollar debts

had no sense of the difference

between justice and revenge.

And I want to see the oaks

that shaded the bronze doughboy

in the downtown Visalia park

beside the quonset hut tossed up in '42,

when that was the most expedient means

for small town civic buildings.

And it made everybody feel

like they were participating in the war.

And when the war was over

and Mom was riding

on the back of lowslung Harleys

with the guys who had returned

from Okinawa or Palermo

with their souvenirs and G.I. bills,

getting their thrills

on the dusty valley roads.

And the sky glimpsed through the oaks

was warm and glowed with the hope

of post war prosperity and the pink tinge

of sunset washed over the pastures

and the raisin fields, and the bronze soldier

in the park on Main Street.

Walk. The signal lit up in green

counted down from fifteen.

The guys looked up from their phones

and headed for the taco truck

discussing brand and code

and market domination.