“Life is hard”
Is life really hard
like a steel bar?

Will the work bring pain
like a really sharp, long pin?

It will make you sweat
like a stream going down.

“A Raisin in the Sun”
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore-- And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet?

“Carrot Sheds”
Orange grove blossoms drench the thickened
Darkness with their summer-dense perfume.
Carrots picked are placed in cello packs
In flood-lit, open metal sheds

"The Chef"
He has his heads from Africa mounted on the walls
of a house atop a mound, a hill he calls his own.
A chef, life spent in heat before a glowering grill,
searing steaks, hissing at absent-minded waitresses,
amateurs, by day who ski the mountain.

He sharply hisses to pick up their orders; covers their asses
when they forget to turn their orders in, cooking
on high, fast heat the forgotten chateau briand.

"The Man Who Tilled The Land Is Gone"

The man who tilled the land is gone.
Grass will not be cut and baled in hay.
Corn is left unsown in tall and stately rows.
The cows that ate the corn and hay replaced
by crowding houses in the spacious field
atop the graceful knoll where once the cherry bloomed
on buried bones, white and pink in spring,
long forgotten from an ancient tomb.