Working The Fields Poem by Larry Houston

The fields are hot and we kick up dust as we walk the green rows, sweat and dirt run down our necks and
under our cheap cotton shirts.
Anthony's arms are huge and covered with veins that twist like snakes beneath his dark skin
tobacco sap on his thick hands.
At lunch we stand two deep at the grill shouting orders for burgers and grab cold drinks from the ice box
and take our white paper bags
out
to the cool shade beside the old store,
and eat
and tell lies
around mouthfuls of meat as the sweat dries on our arms.
I look at the three
More men than boys
Virile and strong
me pale and weak
I bite my sandwich and chew, hamburger grease on my lips. I ball up the wax paper my burger was in, dump it in the trash bin wipe the grease on my pants and climb in the back of the pickup