Because the rain was particularly insistent today,
a rebellious pelting against the tin roof over your head,
the road became a slick shadow of water.

Round shapes of the brightest colors
were left to be pitied with clouded eyes—
None worth the time
of his wobbling red wagon—
Checkered red and brown,
with three screws missing;
Or her rusting pink tricycle—
A tassel falling from the handlebars every few feet,
glittering the ground with a rainbow strand.

You talk of a farmer, much like yourself,
who couldn’t compete against you
and became a lawyer out of shame in his defeat;
A farmer, you say, who didn’t believe in God.

Like the solid uncertainty
of survival,
people may listen to the words of your honest breath
with paper handshakes
or roadside glances.