back then, when the hills were too big
we walked our bikes to fire hydrant rest stops
where we ate tomatoes we swiped
from the Everly’s garden, apples from Old Man Cole’s tree
and strawberries, hot and sweet, from the pyramid beneath
back home, we waited for hot rubber hose water
until it ran cold, our bare feet in cool grass
then, we scrambled for the corner of the house
to formulate a lie, make up another story
much the same as the last
it’s funny today to remember how good
stolen fruit tastes when its eaten under hot sun,
bikes propped against our knees,
and the way hose water quenches thirst so well
once it runs cold—
and sad to see how we’re still hiding
in the bushes from the man
in the back door
