Cat and I squeeze through a break in the fence;
sun hangs high in the sky-
the only witness to our crime.
we pick daisies, eat berries, sit in a field of tall grass
on old man Trumbeto’s property.
bold black lettered signs, with the occasional red
for dramatic effect,
are nailed – to intimidate – on every odd number chestnut tree
along the property line.
beware of dog, STOP, no trespassing, etc.
I lean back; inherent wise ass attitude pose;
pull a long blade of grass, place it between my fingers;
hold it to my lips and blow.
Cat laughs, reaches into the pricker bush
for a juicy raspberry treasure.
She resembles a little rascal,
a caricature, a truant, a vagabond
from an old black and white flick.
torn jeans and scuffed brown shoes;
but eyes so clear, I can’t even imagine
what she sees.
I’m too busy concentrating to pay any attention to her.
she knows; like a dog with a bone,
I won’t stop until there’s
a whistle in the wind – sharp or flat
it’s the success of any sound I’m aiming for
because Cat will sing even with a belly full of berries
and stains on her face and hands;
that she wears like a medal of honor;
which there is none amongst trespassers like us;
added to our offenses – berry thieves,
grass blowing musicians and poets.
we can’t carry a tune, but as rough and tumble gypsy kids
we find bits of heaven on earth within our potential.
off beat, lack of rhythm and no rhyme

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