Noel Coward on the Palouse

Despite this Ford truck, my Cenex cap
I'm no man of the field. Noel croons
of smart teas and Cap Ferrat
as I drive through the March Palouse

each frozen farm centered with its home
amid shade trees. I picture myself
with each house, gauging if I'd find
the sway to flourish in such fields.
Intermittent towns appear-at each heart
a lone red light flashing. Men
in overalls trudge before me, lips
burgeoning with brown juice.

I idle with the windows hiked as Noel
sings within my cab. By my design
these men don't hear. I'm passing
through this country only borrowing.