And a gut full of the first solid food ingested 

In days,

The dirt on my fingers is starting to taste

Of a memory I was born so far after collecting,

And I wish things were harder.

I dream of another good work day,

And when the check comes.

And how "hard" I tell myself things are now.

I dream of a hellish work week collecting onions with the first wave of California migrant workers.

Jealousy,

You smell so bitter.

I wonder how you taste.