The gardener, brown-skinned,
rakes pine needles,
a light scratching on dry ground.
It must feel good to the earth’s back.
I sit on a bench
absorbing the sunshine
the pine fragrance,
contemplating what it’s like
to breathe the priciest air
in America.
The gardener, whistling,
wears a dusky blue cap
with a frayed bill.
Twice his annual salary
wouldn’t pay one child’s tuition.
Sun filters through the pines,
baptizing all in its path.
by Pat Owen
Gulf Stream Magazine 