Tuesday Poem

Gaia's Men

The winds are high, the sun bright.
Near the service station door are parked
two white work trucks, both overloaded
with tillers, shovels and rakes,
the hood is up on one . . .no smoke. . .out of oil, I guess.
I hear a deep melodic voice, but pretend
I’ve heard nothing. Choosing, instead, to watch
the numbers on the pump climb higher,
twelve gallons–– $30.00––seven more gallons
before my tank will be full.
As I wait for the dull thump of the pump as it turns off
I hear the voice again, “Can I pump your gas for you?”
I turn to see two thin men, standing near the trucks.
They have pulled off their overalls,
but their faces are still dirt-smeared,
and their hair bound beneath baseball caps and rags.
All day they have cut furrows in the field just up the road.
I wonder, if Gaia has missed these times
when the men return to resume cutting
wayward roots out of her body,
smoothing lumps with their Hula Hoes,
leaving behind their offering of seeds, and fresh water.
Now, their toil complete, they flirt with Aphrodite,
hoping she will lead them to a warm
cleansing downpour,
hoping she will dry their bodies
with her long wheat colored hair.
Wrap her arms around their narrow waists
kiss their honey brown skin,
rub, and oil their aching muscles
allow them to rest heavy heads on her full breast.

by Georgia Anne Banks Martin
from Thanal Online