as a boy
I remember the sound
of:
“RAGS! BOTTLES! SACKS!”
“RAGS! BOTTLES! SACKS!”
it was during the
Depression
and you could hear the
voice
long before you saw the
old wagon
and the
old tired
swaybacked horse.
then you heard the
hooves:
“clop, clop, clop…”
and then you saw the
horse and the
wagon
and it always seemed
to be
on the hottest summer
day:
“RAGS! BOTTLES! SACKS!”
oh
that horse was so
tired–
white streams of
saliva
drooling
as the bit dug into
the mouth
he pulled an intolerable
load
of
rags, bottles, sacks
I saw his eyes
large
in agony
his ribs
showing
the giant flies
whirled and landed upon
raw places on his
skin.
sometimes
one of our fathers would
yell:
“Hey! Why don’t you
feed that horse, you
bastard!“
the man’s answer was
always the
same:
“RAGS! BOTTLES! SACKS!”
the man was
incredibly
dirty, un-
shaven, wearing a crushed
and stained
fedora
he
sat on top of
a large pile of
sacks
and
now and
then
as the horse seemed to
miss
a step
this man would
lay down
the long whip…
the sound was like a
rifle shot
a phalanx of flies would
rise
and the horse would
yank forward
anew
the hooves slipping and
sliding on the hot
asphalt
and then
all we could
see
was the back of the
wagon
and
the massive mound of
rags and bottles
covered with
brown sacks
and
again
the voice:
“RAGS! BOTTLES! SACKS!”
he was
the first man
I ever wanted to
kill
and
there have been
none
since.