i know that i put this up as a “prose-ish poem” a few monthes ago, but i just reworked it and now it is a regular poem. so here it is again and i am the one writing this post so i can do what ever i want.
Butter or pie
We left Portland early.
By 8am, at least.
On our way out to Hood River
we decided that we had no idea
where we were going.
“The Fruit Loop” was the answer,
where it started was the question.
The fellow at the Mobile
(just off the highway)
was real helpful,
sent us up the right hill, said
“go clockwise,
the apples only get better
as the hours pass”.
There were fruit stands everywhere,
but we wanted a real experience,
picking the apples for ourselves,
kissing under the trees,
getting our shoes muddy.
The first orchard was a bust,
I guess that guy at the gas station was right.
They did have farm animals though.
Never been so close to a pig.
Man, that little guy stank.
At the second orchard, “Mallory’s”,
or “Mallardies”, or something,
we scored big.
20 pounds it seemed.
And the pickers were having a fiesta,
dancing to Nortena music,
selling tamales for a $1.25,
(all the hot sauce you could pour),
and warm cider.
I had two, Megan had one
and some bites of my second.
On our way home we talked
about what we were going to do
with all those apples.
I said apple butter,
Megan wanted pie.
There was probably enough for both.
