The Yellow Digger
the railway tracks hum all night like a drunk’s heartbeat, and come seven in the morning, the yellow bastard starts gnawing the street — teeth filthy, breath of diesel and broken stone — ripping up clean concrete that never hurt nobody, hunting for pipes for a wage so that some engineer can feed his kids,
The Pear Tree
there you were, in that ragged denim jacket, frayed at the cuffs, your jeans hanging loose on your bony hips like a torn flag in the hot wind. I’m standing at the kitchen window, watching you reach up into my husband’s pear tree, plucking those fat golden pears one by one, slow, deliberate, like you’re