“You could lighten

up a little,” he says, shutting the rusted tailgate, “maybe at least lean down from your high horse and look busy,” picking up his work gloves and his spade. “You’re not the only hick on the clock with an education,” he says, half- laughing, half-wheezing, and spits, his bottom lip bulging with a load of Skoal,“even if you do think pretty highly of your poetry.”