Ever Fresh Farms

The black & white photo
I found on the internet
shows it from the air -
a long narrow building
surrounded by farmland -

A time when the Island
Was a blank landscape,
A canvas of crops,
Before the caravans
of suburban pioneers
made the eastward journey
from the city
in search of a better life

I remember the crackling sound
our car tires made
pulling off the smooth
main highway
onto the gravel parking lot
that surrounded it

Going there
always meant coming home
with some toy or novelty item:
a bag of green plastic army men
a packet of Mexican jumping beans
a real rabbit's foot key chain
a pair of black and white repelling dogs

They tore it down in the early '60s
to build a Wetson's
and a miniature golf course

But there are days
When I close my eyes
And pull off the main road
in memory

Just to hear
The crackling sound
of tires
on the gravel parking lot
of Ever Fresh Farms

The Marionette

At that certain young age
They are never sure
Stating one moment- He’s fake
And then in the next
Asking hesitantly - Is he real?

And it makes no difference
That they can see
The thin strings
Connected to his hands
And head and feet

But once he awakens
From his tangled sleep
And leaps into the air
To perform his little dance
All doubt disappears

And all they see
Is a little magic
Marionette man
Who is real