Yeah You
by Fred Marchant
it is a long walk down
through the olive trees
past a burnt-out house
the grass scorched
oil-stained & sparse
past spent gas shells
over brass casings
remnants of rounds
from a metal press back
in the States let us say
from the Tennessee
of the old Stevens jar
and someone who cannot
wait on tables another
day and will for a living
nail the laths and boxes
sign a lading sheet before
going home for some
sleep while the work
of her hands becomes
mere refuse on this road
baled in wire barbs and
shaded soldier-eyes
arms as stiff and straight
as the yeah you he says
to each one at a time
hands up passing through
Copyright © 2016 by Fred Marchant.