The hose man is a shy one,
hands dug into pockets
and hat making shadows
on his all-weather radial tire face.
His Lincoln is a golfcart with a pick-up bed
tack-welded over the engine.
He wants to make things green.
Some mornings he starts
a half hour before the shift,
hose upon hose, mist upon mist.
As the sun climbs tiny rainbows appear.
He is smiling. On some days he canticles.
Every now and then he looks at the sky.
It seems dry up there.
:: Barrett Warner, in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review #6 (1995)
Hey thanks for finding this poem. I wrote it while on a three week hitch in Idaho and after I sent it to Borderlands I lost track of it.
ReplyDeleteBarrett, I really like the poem. I don't know if Borderlands is still around; I used to subscribe way back when I lived in Texas.
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