She’s got a real old-timer who can’t
make it to his seat without the aid of his stick.
Some kind of ailment makes him shake, twitch.
‘What would you like?’ she says.
‘A number one all over?’ she repeats
translating the toothless mumble.
God help her, she holds the shaver
close to his shaking head.
Far away, a farmer
drives a red harvester
through a field of wheat
making the clay tremble.