The Cocks Crow

 

 

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It’s hard labor working these fields
pulling potatoes from the dirt
ain’t no easy task
no quarter given
and none to ask

Irish, Asians
Africans, and Mexicans
we know our rows
and don long sleeves
scarves, hoods, and sombreros
cause this ain’t no time for tanning
this bent over heat
will grind you into the dirt
and leave you to the crows

but we walk home straight
when the suns ember smolders
wash off the dust
and laugh like a sinner
Mama brings strong drink
to spice up our dinner

and after pushing our children
in swings made of tires
we tuck them in
and tend to our fires

the men and women
loving hard and long
like the life they live
and a field picking song

then sleep through the night
till the crowing of the sun
and the rising of the cock
for to smile a new day
at the passion we have known
at the harvest we have reaped
and the seed we have sown.


Comments

The Cocks Crow — 4 Comments

  1. What a wonderful poem Wayne, it’s symbolic for many. Immigrants who came to both our countries, bringing every last stitch they owned, breaking their backs in toil and sweat to bring their children up in AMERICA their new home. Indeed they sewed much seed and leave generations of us here to grow and foster what they died for.

    • Hi Vincent. Somehow I missed this comment but I guess better late than never! Thank you again for the generous words my friend.

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