We’ll be back when the rain comes,
they say,
pulling away with all they own,
straining the springs of their motor cars.
Don’t forget us.
And so they go,
fleeing the blowing dust,
fleeing the fields of brown-tipped wheat
barely ankle high,
and sparse as the hair on a dog’s belly.
We’ll be back, they say,
pulling away toward Texas,
Arkansas,
where they can rent a farm,
pull in enough cash,
maybe start again.
We’ll be back when it rains,
they say,
setting out with their bedsprings and mattresses,
their cookstoves and dishes,
their kitchen tables,
and their milk goats
tied to their running boards
setting out for
California,
where even though they say they’ll come back,
they just might stay
if what they hear about that place is true.
Don’t forget us, they say.
But there are so many leaving,
how can I remember them all?
April 1935