The man works the rows with deft hands,
Fingers finding the connection
Where green stem joins red fruit.

A quick twist, a pull, a small pop
And the smooth globe is in his hand,
Right hand and left working equally.
Fluid motion of picking, turning, gently dropping,
Almost rolling the ripe tomatoes into the wooden crate.

Three feet at a time, he shoves the crate forward
In the furrowed dirt between the green rows,
Wiping the sweat from his face
Without disrupting his motion.

What drives this man? and his family?
Wife, sons and daughters. All working
Their own rows.

I fumble with the fruit, clumsy,
Envious of the man’s machine-like grace.
It’s going to take me all day to earn enough
for a lousy pair of Levi’s.

The man’s hands caress, fondle and pluck non-stop,
Crates filling almost magically with the plump tomatoes.
He must be picking three boxes to my one.

Tired out, unused to work, I find a tree
To shade me until the bus returns.
Six dollars and twenty-five cents.
Not good, but enough.