Making Money: Drought Year in Minkler, California

“It’s a ’49,” Rhinehardt said, and slammed The screen door, then worked his way around The dog turds in the yard To the Buick gutted from fire—the gears Teething rust, the fenders sloped Like the shoulders of a fired worker Out of beer. He circled the car Kicking the tires, eyeing The grille that still grinned the ribbed wings Of a sparrow. He looked inside and flies Lifted like patted dust, settling Into a loose knot on the visor. “Yeh, you’re right as right ... it’s a ’50,” Rhinehardt spat, his tongue rolling A false tooth into place. “It’s got no Running board.” He pressed a buck Into his son’s hand and retired to the porch Where he towel-flicked His wife from a chair And as evening came on watched beyond The street, a kennel of trees, Where—as he had dreamed—a plane would drop And bloom fire. Two bucks on that one.