In the gravel parking lot
behind the blue Laundromat
I find raspberries, though here
in the rain arched canes are rare.
Haven’t been on land in weeks—
it seems everything could knock
me over: the top steam stack leaks
he smell of fish rot and bleach.
I find the exact wood screws
I need in the hardware store.
There’s fresh water, hot showers,
clothes warm out of the dryer,
a bar full of strangers, cell service,
an apple, and this berry patch
where feral plants have blossomed
and bear tiny ruby drupelets.
I want to eat each one. I
want to walk back to the boat,
cupping the whole harvest, leave
nothing for the rest of town.
In the sink, the berries glint
roe-colored. I see, somehow,
salmon thrashing in black nets.
Berry-pink pearls spawned on deck.
Each day someone does something
worse to another so what
does it matter if I eat
all the raspberries alone?
What could possibly happen
if I placed each in the palm
of another: one for her,
for him, for me, for you?
Essential existential Q, set up well: ‘What would it matter?’
Thanks for the strawberry!
Careless, careless me. Make that a raspberry. (Forgot myself for a moment, it tasted so goooood…)
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