Berry pickers

He stood, at the foot of her bed -

pulling off black socks,

one at a time -

perfectly-toned legs, wispy black hairs

against dark skin.

She had not imagined

enjoying his form,

decades later,

as if no time had passed.

As youth, they'd

sat in Barrett's field

picking red berries

anticipating

closing time.

Country highways

lifted and lulled

cars careening around corners -

music blaring,

then

softer,

as,

pulled over by a blueberry field,

(not yet ready for harvest)

trucks zoom past

unaware...

of hot bodies

pressing

against fake leather -

sticking, and lifting.

Now,

as adults:

occupying permanent space,

cotton sheets,

a cool breeze,

the shelter of night from

neighbours who peek -

soft lamps turn

bedroom windows

into theatre,

until lights

dim.

Moonlit bodies press

in silent hallelujahs,

as kids slumber

next door.

Stars

stand guard

(celestial sentinels),

gleaming

'it is your time'

through foggy skylight.

Mattress comforts,

blankets wrap;

night is long -

licking its way

across hours,

tongues exploring

the candied kernels

of the soul.

Who'd have thought

back then,

when baskets of berries seemed endless

and reprieve was

a fast drive on hot roads,

that

their future would be

contained within

air-conditioned walls -

sheltering their passions,

preserving their memories,

and racing toward future

in the bosom

of restraint

and fevered compassion.

Now, cars with heated seats

warm harsh winters.

Black socks, dress shoes,

business suits...

make one forget one's origins.

We are all berry pickers

looking for our ride home.