migrant worker

Before I leave home

To visit the home

That was my home

But is no longer

I gather a brown paper bag

With a malt liquor can

Left by an old man who walks

Humped over with a cane

He leaves it every Friday

Across from where he lives

Under a bench

In the shade of the park

He lives with a wife, two sons

and two granddaughters

I figure it’s the least I can do

For a neighborhood friend

Once a week, he walks

To a corner gas station

Buys his treat to drink in the park

So his granddaughters can’t tattle

Every few weeks

He comes to our door

Asks if he can earn some money

Pulling weeds in our yard

Afterwards, I drive him for his stash

Take the long way back

So he can get out of my truck

On the side away from his house

So his family won’t ground him

Like a teenager caught drinking

I thank him for his service

And go home to finish pulling weeds

8-14-21