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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