Watermelon Bus

To see men launch juicy
watermelons into a bus.
They’re migrants working
like oppression along lines
of plastic sheets, filling
valley fruit into the hunky
green frame. Glare pumps
upon the men—reaching,
grabbing melons, tossing
them into missing bus
windows, where more men
inside catch my insides,
filling me up, floor to top.
The bus leaves. Men work
parallel to clouds, drying
tears over plastic souls.
A new bus comes. Work
goes on, wishing for sky
to take us—until we’re
flung—fresh as fruity
flesh, like infinity inside
us, thrown, flying alive.