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.