on the way to the Eastern shore

on the way down

route 50,

straight east,

before Cambridge,

we stop

at a small roadside shed,

open on the front

with boards that are

hinged above

with odd nails and screws.

there's a wooden sign 

planted on the roadside,

waist high, saying

lopes and strawberries,

melons

and tomatoes. sweet corn.

LOCAL, is in large

caps.

the ink looks etched on by

a hurried hand,

house red, left over perhaps

from the door

and shutters we passed

a few miles back.

there's a fat man sitting in a 

folding

chair, fanning himself

with an oriental fan seen last

in an old movie,

with Robert Mitchum

or Richard Montgomery

circa world war

two in Japan.

his eyes are closed, and his skin

is a burnished color,

that one has

from a lifetime of field work.

the bright greens and yellows,

the reds

of the fruit and vegetables,

are in contrast to everything

around us,

the dry flat field that once

held corn looks tired,

with endless rows

of bent stalks,

suffering under the boil

of a sun and the long summer,

now over.

the man's wife,

we guess that,

is arranging her produce

in boxes

on a folding card table,

and turns to greet us,

not with a smile

but with the worried look

of hard times.

help yourself, she says, bags

are over there.

and if you have to go, there's

a bathroom

around back.

she's holding a large green

apple in her

hand, that she

wipes with her checkered apron,

before taking a bite,

which makes the man sit up

and open 

his cold blue eyes.