Always Leaving

by David Chorlton

The fields are stretched
bright and wide
around workers paid in cash
from the back of a truck
by someone who needs
anonymity as much
as they do;
                they
whose hands pick onions,
flowers and celery,
pack strawberries
into little baskets
and little baskets into
a box to ship
to markets far away,
and who fold
the banknotes they are given
tight,
         using the hands
that hold the soap
that washes off pesticides
when the work day
ends, and which pack
up belongings
when the time comes
to move,
            and everything fits
in a suitcase
that closes and locks
with a click for each crop
as it ripens.