He worked hard

        after  a long day at Cross Chevrolet,
        Cadillac, and Buick when it
        was successful, the only one
        surviving in a small town

        he worked hard as a farmer until the lay
        of the field he sowed gave darkness, a fit
        like a cover on rolling hills until seeds were one
        and done, except for harrowing them down

        so crows would not walk the length of the field
        eating the seeds one after one until there were few
        left to sprout.
       As night fell, the only sapling, straight and sharp

        stabbed through the 10-28 rear tire, killed
        it with the anti-freeze, flowing like blood, too
        soon flat and out,
        and I walked off, leaving him cursing like harp

        notes. I drove the ’54 Chevy even with him.
        I could tell by his silence that he was surprised, 
        but he did not miss a beat, hooking the harrow
        to the car. He said, “don’t drive too fast and tear it up.”

        He watched me harrow the field until it was done.
        He unhooked the chains and we rode to the house in silence.