I watched my father's friends Roll cigarettes, when I was young 
Leaning against our black tarpaper shack. 
The wheatstraw grimy in their hands 
Talking of cars and tools and jobs 
Everybody out of work the quick flip back 
And thin lick stick of the tongue, 
And a twist, and a fingernail flare of match. 
I watched and wished my overalls 
Had hammer-
slings like theirs.

The war and after the war
With jobs and money came,
My father lives in a big suburban home.
It seems like since the thirties
I'm the only one stayed poor.
It's good to sit in the
Window of my shack,
Roll tan wheatstraw and tobacco
Round and smoke.