by KEVIN GILLAM
it was in April I believe,
on a Sunday. Frankie was
on the veranda, chewing
his ‘bacco, spitting and
staring, staring into nothing.
“see how spotty that wheat is
out there?” my eyes take in
swathes of rippling stubble.
“well that short stuff shouldn’t be
brindled like that.” ‘Drought Turns 18’ –
that was the header of the
weekly rag. our eyes meet.
“these are dust bowl days”. a gob
of his spit folds in gravel.