The Slab was Purgatory
A day was as cool as it would get.
The boss was never there
At the slab, five-acres of oiled-dirt,
When we came to work at 7:00
While the day was still serene.
We guessed the boss drove by
Not stopping, checking for our cars
Around the time to start work.
The job, sorting long avenues
Of mixed raisin pick-boxes,
Grower’s names stenciled on them.
Emptied at the packinghouse,
An assortment by the hundreds,
Stacked fifteen feet high,
Ended up here on the slab
Outside of town, until October
When the growers came here
To take their pick-boxes away.
The boss came around to check-up
Three times during the day
To insure we were working;
10 A.M., lunch, and at 3:00 P.M.,
And deliver paychecks on Saturdays.
We went to work a half hour
Before the boss got there,
Getting dirty and sweaty.
He would tell us to take it easy
And not to overdo it.
Organizing filthy wooden boxes
By the grower’s name
Was punishment of the damned
As the day turned to hell-fire,
A torturing, punitive heat.
Temperatures exceeded 107-degrees.
After the boss left, we withdrew
To our shady resting place
At the far end of the lot,
Behind a barrier of boxes
Away from sight and the road.
We built a large shade covering,
Reclining chairs, coffee table,
A bed for hung-over mornings,
Out of broken wooden boxes.
Music from a portable radio.
We waited for an afterlife
At the end of the workday;
4:00 P.M., at the hottest time.
We were sorry for our sins,
At minimum wage of a $1.25 an hour,
We were in need of cleansing.
The car windows rolled down,
North on Golden State Boulevard
At 60 miles-an-hour, a dusty green blur
Of oleanders and palm trees,
Hot air blew in on the newly dead.
Stephen Barile, a Fresno, California native, attended Fresno City College, Fresno Pacific University, and California State University, Fresno. He was a long-time member of the Fresno Poet’s Association. Stephen Barile lives and writes in Fresno. His poems have been published extensively.
