A white pick-up, creased with wrinkles,
soiled with rust, parked alongside
a washboard road.  A washing machine

weights the truck bed.  A power pole
marks an address, a drive, a yard beyond,
and a cable looping down connects
hijacked current from above.  

There’s a yellow garden hose filling
the tub and a woman sorting whites
from colors, a previous load spread
over fencelines to dry under a sky

filled with frosted grapes and sun.

Needs work, I know.  At present, seems to ask "And? So?  Your point being?"  Not to mention a need for clarity as to the whole.  thanks for the looksee and comments.  ;)

No, I disagree, never for a moment will this poem ask "You point being"! A bit more clarity in laying out the mechanics of the picture is all, maybe.

[edit 2]

A white pick-up, creased with rust,
parked alongside a washboard road
with a washing machine weighting the truck bed. 
A power pole marks a driveway’s end.  There’s
a cable looped down and plugged in, hijacking
current from above.  And a garden
hose filling the tub.  A woman stands on
the tailgate, sorts whites from colors,
an earlier load spread over fence lines
to dry on the way to being worn under
another sun.

After "to dry," I don't feel like anything is being said.
Can't agree that the energy of the poem is "look at the quaint natives" at all. I don't think the strangeness is not in the eye of the beholder, but inherent in the appropriation of a large artifact from one world being plugged into use in an entirely different world.

Love this Lynn.  The polish you've rubbed up with your editing! I agree with your biffing thoughts about the title.  As to the end, I wonder if you nixed the last two lines and said something more about the woman, or the truck driver instead, it might have even more impact. 

Lynn, My comment was that your edits precluded any chance that the poem would sound as one of those travelogue quips. I did not mean, as Tom read, to infer that the poem's energy comes from or is akin to such quips. Language is such a tricky thing...Note from the comments how the poem transforms readers into witnesses projecting feelings.

larry

[edit 2]

A white pick-up, creased with rust,
parked alongside a washboard road
with a washing machine weighting the truck bed.  
A power pole marks a driveway’s end.  There’s
a cable looped down and plugged in, hijacking
current from above.  And a garden
hose filling the tub.  A woman stands on
the tailgate, sorts whites from colors,
an earlier load spread over fence lines
to dry on the way to being worn under
another sun.


[edit 1]

A white pick-up, creased with wrinkles,
soiled with rust, parked alongside

a washboard road with a washing machine
weighting the truck bed.  A power pole

marks a driveway’s end.  There’s a cable
looped down and plugged in, hijacking

current from above.  And a garden
hose filling the tub.  A woman stands

on the tailgate, sorts whites from colors,
an earlier load spread over fence lines

to dry on the way to being worn under
a sky of frosted grapes and sun.




[original]
A white pick-up, creased with wrinkles,
soiled with rust, parked alongside
a washboard road.  A washing machine

weights the truck bed.  A power pole
marks an address, a drive, a yard beyond,
and a cable looping down connects
hijacked current from above.  

There’s a yellow garden hose filling
the tub and a woman sorting whites
from colors, a previous load spread
over fencelines to dry under a sky

filled with frosted grapes and sun.

Lynn, My comment was that your edits precluded any chance that the poem would sound as one of those travelogue quips. I did not mean, as Tom read, to infer that the poem's energy comes from or is akin to such quips. Language is such a tricky thing...Note from the comments how the poem transforms readers into witnesses projecting feelings.

larry

A white pick-up, creased with rust,
parked alongside a washboard road
with a washing machine weighting the truck bed. 
A power pole marks a driveway’s end.  There’s
a cable looped down and plugged in, hijacking
current from above.  And a garden
hose filling the tub.  A woman stands on
the tailgate, sorts whites from colors,
an earlier load spread over fence lines
to dry on the way to being worn under
another sun.

A white pick-up, creased with rust,
parked alongside a washboard road
with a washing machine weighting the truck bed.  
A power pole marks a driveway’s end.  There’s
a cable looped down and plugged in, hijacking
current from above.  And a garden hose
filling the tub.  A woman stands on
the tailgate, sorts whites from colors,
an earlier load spread over fence lines
to dry on the way to being worn under
another sun.

A white pick-up, creased with rust,
parked alongside a washboard road
with a washing machine weighting the truck bed.  
A power pole marks a driveway’s end.  There’s
a cable looped down and plugged in, hijacking
current from above.  And a garden hose
filling the tub.  A woman stands on
the tailgate, sorts whites from colors,
an earlier load spread over fence lines
to dry on the way to being worn under
another sun.