McCoy's Carrot

He stops, squats
against a telephone pole
and scribbles in the dirt with a stick,
muttering about traffic
being rational enough to rush toward death.

Old man McCoy.
Half a lifetime, and before — already
It was autumn — I saw him,
after making his way to the bus stop bench,
feed a stray dog knife cuts of salami.
A slight breeze blew loose drops of red wine
from the stubble of his gray beard.

He spits and wipes his forehead
with a greasy rag, explaining to the dog —

It don't matter if a man owns you
or the land you work,
you roll up your sleeves the same
to plow a line in the earth.
What's it amount to?
You're following a mule's ass,
and the mule's following a carrot
it ain't never going to taste.

He already seemed old when I was a boy,
as I seem old now to someone my age then.

He bends toward the stick
under a frayed overcoat,
Turning a token in his swollen hand.
An old man, bitter, aged with a grief
I know nothing of.

— Ron Price