At twenty to twelve
The trucks begin pulling into the parking lot,
Four wheel drives, extended cabs, big tires,
Splattered with the mud
Of a thousand fields
And shop yards.

In twos and threes,
My boys troop in.
Hair flecked with sawdust or lawn clippings,
Boots covered in mud,
Hands dirty,
Smelling of motor oil and grease,
Fertilizer and hay,
Cattle pen and hog barn,
And hard earned sweat.

They smile and joke,
Calling to each other across the restaurant,
Drinking gallons of sweet tea
And eating cheeseburgers or plate lunches,
Already tired from the day
That is only half over.
Their eyes hold the haunted look of farmers
With too much rain
Or not enough.

I know who they are, these boys,
And who they belong to.
I know their names and their daddies,
Their wives and their children.
I hear about their hopes and small victories
Their sadness and setbacks
As I fill their glasses again and again
To slake the thirst of
Hot days and hard work.

By twelve thirty, they’re gone,
Leaving behind smudges on the tables
From sweat soaked arms
And clumps of dirt from their boots.
I never complain about sweeping up farm mud.
And the very least I can do for my boys
Is keep lava soap by the sink
So they can have dinner with lean hands.