June 27, 1970
(I was 25)
rhubarb
poem
Each summer in a
neighboring yard
rhubarb stalks folded their
green umbrellas
to squeeze through the
picket fence.
I followed the dry
transition from leaf to leather
and awaited a moment of
divine inspiration.
Rhubarb is swiped alone.
There’s no camaraderie in
it
not like the apple trees
watched by gangs
in anticipation of darker
raids.
This is spontaneous crime,
second degree
decided just after dusk,
too light to go home
but night enough for fear,
a shock to make fence
jumping easier.
Two three four stalks
snapped and out
and up the alley before a
thought of freedom
so sweet and tart, sour
celery dipped in sugar.
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