“You could lighten

up a little,” he says,

shutting the rusted tailgate,

“maybe at least lean

down from your high horse

and look busy,” picking up

his work gloves and his spade.

“You’re not the only

hick on the clock

with an education,” he says, half-

laughing, half-wheezing,

and spits, his bottom lip bulging

with a load of Skoal,“even

if you do think pretty highly

of your poetry.”