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Fruit Stand
Fruit Stand
A red barn set back from any road,
fronted by asphalt, a rude black scar
littered by cars.
I walk quietly past stalls,
obscenely clean floors, farmers in slacks
running adding machines.
Out to fields stitched with trees,
I stoop to grasp rich, black loam
as a stranger ambles by.
I fight back the urge to run after,
crying, “What have I done to merit your scorn?”
for fear he might answer.
© 6/16/00 Bart Breen
