Truck a passel (a poke) of wildling boys
We call ourselves (our pack) the orphan-slaves
Upcountry — loosed from mothers
Farmed out for scratch by mamas
Pale (pink-backed) tobacco-crew
Bossed by peeled-stick (breakback) donkey-switch
Right far afield past Social Knob
Dark welty field near Luris
Most nights the boy they called Tynan
suppered us with scrapple from a can. Or some black-eyes
he’d’ve road-begged; a quarter-peck of crowders
scrounged off vines.
The broad back-skin on the tallest boy
—a (spreading) welt-weave, a lattice.
Last good gloam-minute after work
we’d strip off there in the side-yard, yawping; taking turns
arc-aiming cool hose-spray each on each.
Eleven of us / chigger-scritches, scablets.
Eleven of us / none of us clean.
Where the boss of us bore down
on us — our rank of bedrolls on the floorboards — one and
one and one, eleven of us — ranked sack-beds
on floorboards — boots of — black breath of — the boss
of us bearing down on us — ain’t none
of us (not a one of us) clean.
And so (the heaving) boys got trucked to CANDY'S STOP
up Hwy. 52 one night and dumped.