the prison farm

the striped melons
green skinned and flesh
toned
those bouldered fruits
carried in our skinny arms
through
the rivulets
of mud
and field,
no stopping our theft
now once
broken off the vine,
even with that long
and short gun,
despite the weight
and fog
of early morning,
the shouts to stop,
we run, we run, and the
captured
stay behind
unchained in orange
suits
cheering us on, cheering
us on.