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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