Morning Song
You wake up to the phrase “salt lick”
You realize you know not one thing
About salt licks—you know salt
And lick but together? How does
The salt lick lick salt?
You know you are moving
To the land of word games
Or musical instruments
Unstrung, battered—too much play
Each day the gleaners walk side walks
In search of bottles. They separate
Already separated bags to find precious
Glass, that is plastic. They hate the cans
They know the places where beer
Overwhelms soda; where huge milk
Cartons say children, many children
Live here. They do not whistle when they
Work. They do not lick sweat
Off tired arms. They go about
The business of poverty with grace
And noise. Early morning dragging
The weight of others waste.
forthcoming in Tribes anthology with art work by Yuko Otomo