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Christina Petrides

Pea Picking


The breeze turns a wobbly wheel of crickets

And blades on the tin windmill clatter


He drops his fork onto his close-scraped plate

And gulps the last sweet mouthful of iced tea


The blue truck idles outside the screen door

While a lazy late summer sun burns overhead


He reapplies his wide brimmed hat

Rolls down his stained cotton sleeves


Whitewall tires bump through grey dust 

Where purple hulls hang from limber vines

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