The old farmer stands
at the end of the lane,
big smile plastered on his face,
waving goodbye.
His coveralls are stained with
work, sweat, mud
and god-knows-what;
the cap on his head perched
to explode with the next thought.
Insistently, he shoves what he has
through my car window.
His head bobs in my rearview mirror,
as I drive away,
wedging the much-used
bulging paper bag under the dash.
It’s filled, I know, with rotting, wormy apples
that have some “good yet.”
Good Yet
