Murky Fruit
Not long ago
at the corner of
Ironic Avenue and
Mary Jane Lane, I grew
plump tuluberries with wiry
roots secured deep underneath
the muddy banks of Shasta Lake.
Cream flowed
from dangling taps
nourishing with foam.
Prayers welcomed blessed
survival when life held some
meaning beyond ticks on tricky
balance sheets singed as leverage.
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