run boys run

i remember the man
in the field with a shotgun.
the workers
in overalls, orange
and dirty
all of them bending
as one, picking melons
along the ripe
rows. handing them
in a line to one another
then onto a flat bed
truck.
i remember as we, the three
friends
each twisting one off
the vine, running.
laughing.
waiting to hear or feel
the blast of
the guard's gun.
he wouldn't shoot
mere children stealing
watermelons from the prison
farm, would he?
and today, i can still
hear the prisoners
yelling out,
run boys, run.