The years of dirt and dust have settled
into every corner of the crumbling buildings,
covered the scraggly bushes and coated
the bare feet of the children. Faded shades
of blue and gray and buckled coveralls
blend with the dirt making it hard to see
where the color of one and the shadow
of the other begin. Broken lines of fence,
barns, and hay lie between the man, the field
and the sky. Today, the man is smiling,
staring into the camera. His wife turns away.
She is not smiling, not frowning—just looking.

Each child gazes toward the camera.
The oldest is smiling slightly. Like her mother,
her hair is combed, pulled back with a ribbon.
The older boy's hair is oiled and slick—but,  
the years of dirt and toil have taken their toll—
the younger children are less groomed,
their hair free, tousled, wild. It's hard
to tell if the woman's dress shapes
the curves of her body from a slight wind
or, the washed  and worn cotton has lost
its ability to cover. Now, it just clings. She doesn't
care. The man cares—it is enough.
With his hat on, the man is ready to go.

This is new—the car, the camera, the day.
Except for a twinkle in the man's eyes,
there is only one other fully aware
of what this day means. He is hiding behind
his father. Glancing toward the black box,
intrigued, but his real interest is in the car's
steering wheel. He rubs his left hand lightly

over finely polished black metal, gripping

the floor shift with his right hand—
both legs are stretched, taut—one foot
on the pedal, one on the clutch,
he is watching, waiting—today, tomorrow,

tonight—soon, very soon—he's gonna

drive this baby right out of this world.