Cotton Pickers

(a memory of the Fifties)

The wondrous taste of ice cold water
from the wooden barrel

in the back of the canvas-covered truck
which took the campesinos

to the cotton fields,
two blocks of ice floating,

and only us kids relaxing there
while the adults dragged

sacks of cotton up and down the rows,
filled them to the opening of the sack,

came in to weigh them,
grabbed a tin of water,

picked another and another row
until the day was devoid.