run boys run

when we stole
the watermelons off the vine
in the dry
plowed earth of St. Elizabeth's
farm,
we had no idea
that there were prisoners
in orange,
picking too.
there were guards holding shotguns
pointed to the ground.
we were thirsty
and hungry, going fishing
on the Potomac river.
what did we know?
we held those heavy green
melons like gold bars in our
skinny arms
and ran back through
the woods, waiting to hear
the gunshots that never came.
I can still hear the shouts
of the pickers,
telling us to run boys,
run.