On the way home from ball practice,
my mother’s station wagon fell in
behind the cesspool cleaner’s truck.
I could see the gauge as she slowed to 28;
acres of mesquite and prickly-pear cactus
went by. Then I saw her grin,
wondering what it was about the muck
that tickled her so. It was a short wait.
The honeywagon was large and likely full of turds and piss;
it was the color of crap or a farmworker’s skin.
Of course we couldn’t see all the guck
inside, but there painted just above the plate
was as vile a word as I’d ever heard my mother utter:
Your shit is my bread and butter.
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