Says the sign
and, lo, they come
throwing open their tailgates,
their trunks and hatches—I turn away
afraid I might see a man dragging
a bulging suitcase with both hands.
One pickup bears the sticker VIOLENCE
is the MOTHER of TIME, its
driver patiently waiting his turn in line.
Free Dirt, blue spray-painted letters
on a muddy scrap of corrugated tin
propped up along the roadside with bricks,
rocking in the evening breeze. Free dirt, as is, roots
and grubs, pork bones, spark plugs, doll arms, black
spoons, no returns, no questions please, right here in
plain sight, naked red mound scooped high and ready to take,
you shovel it, you haul it, you spread it, you own it, and sweet
unshaven lambs of desire, they come!