The lemon is sour
from citric acid
in the sandy soil
the crowded branches
and the Mexican
that throws it into a
bushel basket
its face smashed into
those he got ripe with
The Mexican is sour
because he gets paid by the
bushel basket
and not the hour
his trailer is crowded
with the others
here for la pisca
already planning the trip to
North Carolina or Georgia
for the strawberries
until Christmas
when Ybor City calls them
to make cigars
paid by the box
Paul Smith writes poetry & fiction. He lives in Skokie, Illinois with his wife Flavia. Sometimes he performs poetry at an open mic in Chicago. He believes that brevity is the soul of something he read about once, and whatever that something is or was, it should be cut in half immediately.
the Decolonial Passage 