Monday eroded into dusk.
The fat tomato sun
bled into a horizon
blurred by the ship smoke
of six southbound freighters.
The rye'd been dry
since the first week of July,
August was past,
and the September sky
was filled with the reek
of tarweed blooms and distant fire.
Samuel gazed through the haze
at the half dozen ice tankers
bearing the last frozen calves
of the Arctic glaciers to the thirsty few
who could afford to drink fossil water
behind the high walls of of their enclaves.
His crew of Ford Mark IV automatons
had harvested his last ton of tomatoes.
(The best thing about machines
is that they are incapable of being bored)
But their indifference to emotion
sometimes seemed more cruel
than the hottest/coldest rage.
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