Ripe

 

We are sitting in the car,
Driving east
Past the Columbia
It roars and ripples
With such intensity
White caps churn
Above the darkened blue
We are eating raspberries
At 70 miles an hour
It feels rare
And decadent
A little dangerous
Small fruit is not
Meant for travel
It lacks the fortitude
Of processed foods
We come upon a long line
Of sand colored
Military vehicles
That seem to span for miles
Both dwarfing the fresh
Vulnerable berries
And making me feel
A peach pit in my stomach
I who love our armed forces
Am thankfully unaccustomed
To seeing the use of their power
The tips of my fingers
Are staining, red
I wonder if the young men
In the tank
Next to me
Feel brave and strong
Or if they look down
And see stains on their hands
Or maybe, like me
They feel as crushable
And small
As raspberries.

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