By Tom Piekarski

I can’t deplane from the daily wheel,
grime glued to its ball bearings.
That wheel turns trapezoidally
and squawks louder than a thousand bats!

Beyond dry rolling hills to the west
where coastal fog dominates
on typical spring days
the lettuce pickers knowing nothing
of Steinbeck nevertheless toil
in fields he made famous.
On days when incessant Pacific fog
finally burns off
those workers celebrate, sunrinsed.
They are not disturbed in the least that

the Hippodrome sails far from Rome,
farther than any eye can see.

Copyright Piekarski 2012