Concessions in Spring
Jenn Habel

All up and down the arroyos
men jury-rig their cars into another
week’s running, while down in
the gullies their sons dig for crawdads
among the tangled twine and dog
shit, the tires of various sizes.
Other boys, with bikes, crunch glass
as they pass the Main Streets
and Jades, Dorals and American
Spirits strewn like cards behind
the trailers, the unredeemable plastic
bottles, the Dominos boxes like
faded fallen flags. Walk far enough
and the sky will have gone clam shell
purple above the brown bag Rio,
and one night a family will be dancing
on its bank. It’s a choice, isn’t it?
How often you remember their music
coming through the car’s windows,
the meal spread across its open hatch.
Just as you could have let them be:
the young couple planting pansies
outside their fixer-upper, instead of
giving those flowers a week, two at best.

© 2006 Jenn Habel