Empties

By Joseph Hesch

Walking through the old neighborhood,
full of derelict buildings and derelict souls, 
my head down against the December wind, 
I spied the shiny bit of sidewalk flotsam,
an empty bottle whose ice-blue label read
Crystal Palace Vodka.
Diamonds of ice sparkled within,
survivors of this vessel’s manifest

before it ended up on the rocks

or straight to the bottom.

It reminded me of finding such empties 

of temporary anesthesia in my youth.

More often than not, they were green bottles 
the abandoned shells of Thunderbird wine.

These days it seems even the street alkies,

have gone big time, drinking the same hooch

as higher class drunks, only with no olive.

I kicked the bottle from my path, and found

even more change to these tippling times-- 

the Palace empty wasn’t crystal.

Rather, it was made of plastic.

Of course it was. 
As I and my reverie 
stalked further up the street,

we came upon another empty,

green like those old bottles of T-bird.

This one was a child’s mitten

perched on a snowpile.

I wasn’t sure if it was waving

hello to the new world

or goodbye to the old, 
so I put it in my pocket and 
together we escaped this one.

Secret Harvest

By Joseph Hesch

They hide their faces

like pickpockets,

pulling ruby and garnet

from the Macs' green folds and

from the secret places of Northern Spies.

Black and brown folks, shivering

in a northland that knows mostly white,

from the bosses' faces,

to its mountaintops, 

to its Aprils.

They work hard, paid maybe enough 

to support their families and a life 

that sends them to places that 

will never be their home.

That’s why they hide their faces,

so they won’t have to go Home.

But Federales with badges and

cameras are always trying to

send them back.

Back to El Salvador,

to Jamaica, 

or to Mexico.

After they climb from the ladders

for the last time this season, and

gently unload their treasures into

great grey boxes that dot the orchard,

all the pickers want is to trade

the red gems for some green to travel

to Louisiana for the rice,

to Florida for the celery, or

to the grocer's for their kids.


Autumn is, give-or-take, a couple of days away. This time always puts me in mind of my days in the North Country of New York. Apple country. It also reminds me of a story from when I was working as a baby reporter. I was sent to do a simple apple harvest piece at an orchard near Plattsburgh. There were quiet people all over the place, most of whom would never make eye contact with me. After talking to the owner of the place, I stepped away a bit and pulled my camera out to take a few "atmosphere" shots to illustrate the story.

"No photos," the Boss said. "Put that camera away."

"But I'm just taking a couple of shots for the story. It's such a bucolic scene and..."

"No photos, I said." The Boss sounded pretty stern, but I tried igmoring him and looked through my viewfinder, composing what I thought would be my only shot.

I felt his hand on my shoulder and when I turned, he put his hands on his hips, pulling the front of his jacket open and revealing a revolver attached to his belt.

"No photos, yes sir," I said. And hauled out of there back to Plattsburgh.

When I got to the office, my boss explained the fellow at the orchard was protecting himself and his workforce, which was comprised of more than a few "illegals."

Like I said, I always remember this story when the first batch of apples enters the house. You don't think he really would have shot me, do you?

"Secret Harvest" is my post for today's dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night, which I had the priviledge to host last week. Check it out and enjoy some of the fruits of a world-wide array of special poets.