Donuts, Not Manna

Donuts, Not Manna

Chafed red hands dangle under
A dungaree coat. Faded threads
Except for purple lettering: Camel.
This dude’s a mechanic, works fifty
Hours under cars. He’s never read a poem.

The scowl of poverty greets you
From a face, still beautiful, behind
Blonde hair. She decides she can’t
Afford a donut and walks out without
A morsel, without a sip, without a poem.

Is there poetry in the wind shaken
Locust trees? Maybe behind the
Wheel of an F-250? No. You
Can’t blame words for hiding. This
Isn’t the right era to sit writing lines.

Can anyone drag a poem out of fake
Wood paneling on a rusting family
Wagon? Is there any beauty at all
In the design made by cracking
Blacktop? Words like people cower.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1996. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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