Down the tracks at the canyon mouth
derailed box cars lay sideways
on the rye grass slope, doors splintered,
burst crates littering the cinders
with peaches, golden Albertas,
free for the taking. I ran
with Carlos down to the wreck
and his mother was there already
with her bucket full, helping another
woman stuff two pillow cases. I saw
Sanchez' younger sister laugh and stick
peaches down her blouse. Guys in high school
filled their pockets, and a man
with a kid's red wagon hurried to fill it;
some people just sat and ate. A man
in blue striped overalls and cap, his cheekbone
smeared with blood, sat on the rails
staring at us as we picked peaches around him --
like we were pigeons he fed --
but he didn't say boo. Then the Yard-Dick
came, and three policeman in a white Dodge
to shoo us. The laughter trickled away.
Our neighbor, old man Gore shook his
walking stick and yelled something, but
he was smiling. No one ran. Together
we just walked on home with arm loads
and sticky faces, and no one spoke
of miracles, or luck, or justice.