Richard Shindell Mariana's Table
out on highway 215 the trucks are hauling wheat grain
apples, soy beans, good red wine to the docks at
Ensenada
the camioneros sit up high and smoke their black
tobacco
in another hour they'll shift it down and pull off for
the night
down the road, not far now Mariana's just arriving
with her empanadas and coolers full of cold cold beer
there's a stand of eucalyptus trees just this side of
Brandsen
in harvest season, rain or shine, she's out there every
night
one-by-one they rumble in, rattling like Panzers
and raising dust clouds, raising hell in 30 year-old
Benzes
they descend like generals whose victory's all but
certain
they stroll through camp rallying for one last push
it's getting late, it's time to go, the southern cross
is rising
Mariana's work is done, at least until tomorrow
anyone who's still awake is over by the fire
where the talk is all of China's rise, and the latest
from the union
which they'd gladly die for if ever they were called to
but for now they're just turning and waving as she
drives away
