at a speed

we crouch in the strawberry patch
and move methodically down
weeding out the clover, bermuda grass, mallow and dead nettle
_______
because rutledge needs more franks
frank says in his navy blue coveralls
while we load not-quite-banana boxes
into the backseat and trunk
_______
a hot pan (glass) of
trice’s mom’s blondes with
chocolate chips cooling
on the butcher block while i
strain the kombucha from
its mother
_______
ashby the kitten who
perched on my shoulder while i
walk down the gravel road
pulling a cart of empty 5 gallon buckets
(rattling) soon to be filled
headed towards the tomato beds
_______
there’s always
the inside joke that
never gets old
in the form of a tattoo
that says lucky you
_______
talking about how fall
took the corner
at a speed
whipping around

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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