Polyester and Dirt

The backhoe bites the edge of the hill today,

spitting out chunks of red and frozen clay.

I smell the dirt and feel the sudden slide

of being seven, with nowhere left to hide.

They put me in a tie that clipped the neck,

a shiny strip of polyester wreck.

I stood there in the gravel by the gate

and learned the heavy vocabulary of weight.

When it was done, the tie fell in the grit,

a blue and jagged thing, and I let it sit.

I didn't want the fabric on my chest

while they were laying all the rest to rest.