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Meat
Poems |
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Genealogy of Meat Pants |
In a room of love,
deep within an apartment of love, Meat Pants rents, first generation on her father's side not to grow up with land. By land Meat Pants means the application of tools to a hog farm in Kansas, and later, in California: oranges, lemons, walnuts. Meat Pants can't help bringing California into this. Her grandfather, a salesman, drove seventeen miles home from the vacuum cleaner parts warehouse in Los Angeles to work on the orange ranch each night. Leisure for the children was a ride along the hose that spouted DDT. It was the oranges that got them through wartime comfortably, Grandma later confided to Meat Pants. Couldn't get much else out of her but an "Oh, honey, I'm just glad those days are over." Sold off parcel by parcel down to one tree remaining in the back yard by the time father of Meat Pants turned 18. All of this happened between wars. Suburbs swallowed farm land on the outskirts of a city 637 miles south of where Meat Pants plays a video game in the vacuum of the present tense. |
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