Migrant Camp

Dusty roads lead in
encircle
and then head somewhere back out again
but not until you pass the bunkhouse
that sleeps forty
or the small littered cabins
that sleep three or four
per unit
and you notice the heat
as it rises from the dusty road
and lands on the sweaty brows of men from Mexico
by way of California
who greet you with a few words.
Hola, Cómo es usted? Muy bien.
A wave of the hand and a smile
because the work begins tomorrow, lunes
and these men who are anxious to start working
are as grateful for the jobs
as we are for the slight breeze that suddenly sneaks down into camp.