When I was a kid, I’d walk up my hill on the way home from school.
There was a place halfway up, that even until 20 years ago,
was both curious and, depending how you saw it, either scary or challenging,
offering daring thieves a chance to try their luck at living or dying.
Of course, if you brought some kind of bag, a backpack perhaps,
you could take out a good haul, toss whatever you’d gathered
over the fence and follow it, clambering up the slick slats, if you could.
This would take time, though, so between the bagging and the climbing
chances were the owners would be picking you off before you could escape.
The sign said that anyone caught stealing fruit would be shot.
Even as a youngster, I was amazed that could be posted in Honolulu.
I’d always wonder as I passed, never interested in going over myself,
if anyone had ever tried it, had attempted to steal their tangerines, lychee?
Were there bodies buried on the property?
Was that why those trees would bear so heavily?