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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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