Harvest Poems

I thought of killing myself because I am only a bricklayer
and you a woman who loves the man who runs a drug store. 

I don't care like I used to; I lay bricks straighter than I 
used to and I sing slower handling the trowel afternoons. 

When the sun is in my eyes and the ladders are shaky and the 
mortar boards go wrong, I think of you.