The sign. The side door. Come inside.
We’re here by nine or ten. She sobbed.
Pack extra peas. The dealer robbed
His boss. No soups. They need a ride

To get their tags. Some coffee too.
He’s had a stroke. It’s just a sprain.
She can’t mow lawns for all the rain.
She’s starved, but not for food. She’s blue

But cackles. Eggs. A constant cough.
No chicken. You apologize:
We don’t have diapers in that size.
We’ll pay before they cut you off

And let you freeze. Her son’s on pills
And so’s the wife. For seven weeks
They’ll keep the kids. His engine leaks.
She’s out of propane. Bring the bills

But come by five. Her swollen knees
Are healing slow. His wife dropped dead
On Christmas. Have some frozen bread,
A bladder wash, a bag of cheese,

A pack of chocolate shakes, a pound
Of venison, a protein bar,
A couple sleeping in their car,
A case of noodles, barren ground

On farmhands’ faces, cracked and worn.
When silence falls, go find a shelf,
Collect your neighbors as yourself
And stack them up, like cans of corn.

***** 

Jeff Sypeck writes: “Usually I write about history, and my poetry tends to focus on the past, but sometimes the here and now come calling, with tough and immediate needs.”

This poem was originally published in Rattle.

Jeff Sypeck is the author of the pop-history book Becoming Charlemagne and co-author of I Have Started for Canaan, the first full-length history of a Reconstruction-era African American community in Maryland. His latest book is an annotated, peer-reviewed translation of a Carolingian calendar poem. He lives in an agricultural reserve an hour outside Washington, D.C.
www.jeffsypeck.com
www.quidplura.com

“Shutdown Food Line” by Geoff Livingston is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.