st. elizabeth's farm

it was a sweet
melon
stolen off the farm
by
skinny boys
with fishing rods
in the dead heat of
summer,

a world full of flies
and the smell of dead
perch on
the sand lawn
of the Potomac river
circa 67. catfish on their
sides,
ballooned grey and slick.
the blue plains
sewage plant just upstream
warming
the water for fish,
and for their too soon
demise.

but us boys, rag muffins
with cow licks, spinner reels,
blood worms,
and lead sinkers in our pockets,

we were burnished with sun,
going down the gulley to
where the farm was.
where the white clothed men were guarded
by shotguns,
the metal barrels gleaming
in the sweltering air.
prisoners
in the field.

how sweet the red meat
of those melons were as we
ran, one for each.
ripped from the green
snake vines, heavy in our arms
laughing our fear away

stumbling to the river bank
where we broke them open
with rocks
and feasted.