He’s two
My baby boy
A child
Born and raised
In the 21st century
I lament 
Things of old
He’ll never see

Faded blue jeans
Squeezed tight
In a wringer
Water trickling down
Into the battered tub
Clean shirts
Bleached white
Swaying lazily
In the warm
Summer breeze
Work-worn hands 
Dried and cracked
In and out of water
All washday long

Green tobacco plants
Plucked gently
From the rich earth
To be planted again
In long straight rows
In fields
That never end
A bare light bulb
Hanging from the ceiling
In a drafty shed
A wood stove
In the corner
Barely chasing away
Winter’s harsh chill
The smooth aroma
Of cured tobacco
Linger long after
It’s hauled to market