An angry boy hides in the weeds, then emerges with a plastic sack
in his hands. The 18-wheeler moves slowly, enormously along
the rough road, like the years to come with nothing clean or sweet or warm.
The boy no longer hides but palms apple after apple, rotten with dirt and syrup, lets loose and hits the trailer broadside.
He's a pitcher, a sniper, a rock star.
He's a bit of starchy flesh smashed, then splashed into the air. The boy waits
on the road for the flare of brake lights, the downshift exhaust, the booted leg
that eases out of the truck with the elegance of scarcely controlled fury.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem