When My Father Whistled
by Cris Barnet

When my father whistled
All four of us
Each in itchy inches
Lugged our shovels
Dragging behind us the rakes
The claws of steel scratching the ground
8 snakes wide
And our foreheads
Fuming with young hustle
Traverse the honking highway
All brothers in a scamper
To board the bus
To pay
To save up money
To escape from under puberty's bozo thumb
And ascend to men

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