saint elizabeth's farm

we were maybe eleven
or twelve

that summer. we each had a rod
and Weber reel,

a box of earth worms
dug up
from the back yard.

a canteen of water. we walked
the five
miles or so to the river
to fish.

on the way, through the woods,
a dirt path,
led to

Saint Elizbeth's farm.
where rows and rows of fat
green
watermelons

grew.

the prison inmates, chained
to each other
would move down
the rows

with blades and hoes
and load them onto trucks.

we'd hide in the brush and
jump
out and steal a few,
one each,

then run as the shotgun
turned towards us.

pellets flying over our
heads. birds leaping into
the sky
at the sound of the blast.

the prisoners laughed
and laughed

under the boil of a
summer sun.
we made their day.

such sweet melons I've never
tasted before,
or will ever taste again.