A Roadside Stand

Poem

The little old house was out with a little new shed 

In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped, 

A roadside stand that too pathetically pled, 

It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread, 

But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports 

The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint. 

The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead, 

Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts 

At having the landscape marred with the artless paint 

Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong 

Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts, 

Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts, 

Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene, 

You have the money, but if you want to be mean, 

Why keep your money (this crossly) and go along. 

The hurt to the scenery wouldn’t be my complaint 

So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid: 

Here far from the city we make our roadside stand 

And ask for some city money to feel in hand 

To try if it will not make our being expand, 

And give us the life of the moving-pictures’ promise 

That the party in power is said to be keeping from us. 

It is in the news that all these pitiful kin 

Are to be bought out and mercifully gathered in 

To live in villages, next to the theatre and the store, 

Where they won’t have to think for themselves anymore, 

While greedy good-doers, beneficent beasts of prey, 

Swarm over their lives enforcing benefits 

That are calculated to soothe them out of their wits, 

And by teaching them how to sleep they sleep all day, 

Destroy their sleeping at night the ancient way. 

Sometimes I feel myself I can hardly bear 

The thought of so much childish longing in vain, 

The sadness that lurks near the open window there, 

That waits all day in almost open prayer 

For the squeal of brakes, the sound of a stopping car, 

Of all the thousand selfish cars that pass, 

Just one to inquire what a farmer’s prices are. 

And one did stop, but only to plow up grass 

In using the yard to back and turn around; 

And another to ask the way to where it was bound; 

And another to ask could they sell it a gallon of gas 

They couldn’t (this crossly); they had none, didn’t it see? 

No, in country money, the country scale of gain, 

The requisite lift of spirit has never been found, 

Or so the voice of the country seems to complain, 

I can’t help owning the great relief it would be 

To put these people at one stroke out of their pain. 

And then next day as I come back into the sane, 

I wonder how I should like you to come to me 

And offer to put me gently out of my pain. 

Summary of Poem

This poem describes the struggles of poor farmers who set up small roadside stands to sell things like berries, vegetables, or offer rest to travelers. They do not beg for food but hope to earn some cash from the rich city people whose money supports life in the cities. However, the passing cars rarely stop to buy anything. Even if they stop, it’s only to ask for directions or to turn their car around, not to support the stand.

The poet feels sad seeing how these poor people wait all day with hope that someone will stop and buy something. They believe this money could help them improve their lives and live the kind of glamorous life shown in movies. But the government and so-called social workers (called “greedy good-doers” in the poem) plan to relocate them to planned villages near theatres and shops. These schemes are supposed to help them but actually take away their independence and make them dependent.

The poet feels deep sympathy for their pain and wishes he could somehow free them from their suffering. But he also realizes he has no real power to change their condition. The poem shows the gap between rural poverty and urban wealth, and the disappointment and helplessness of poor farmers.