We pluck twelve pears from their tree 
and carry them to the metal fence. 
A pile of pears stacked at our feet. 
Was it a bad idea? 
To kids, it didn’t matter. 
Anything to pass the time. 

​

Cars speed down the highway, 
engines roaring, the hot gas 
stench lingering behind. 
When a break finally comes, 
two pears are launched, 
one faster, one harder. 
One rolls, the other splats, 
on the road. 

​

We linger back 
and crouch. 
Not too close. 
Just in case. 

​

Another stream of cars 
zoom past the fence. 
Tires steamroll 
and flatten the pears, 
crushing them to paste. 
Crunch, crunch. 

​

We peek left, then right. 
No cars stop, so we wait 
for the next pause in traffic 
and throw the second set 
of pears onto the highway. 

​

The third round 
the edge fades. 
Six crushed pears 
on the highway 
leaves a sea of mush, 
churned with each car 
blazing by. 

​

Six pears left 
but there’s a limit 
to our game. 
If someone stops, 
what will our parents 
say? 

​

What else can we do 
with six pears? 
Another target? Our toys? 
We’ll make it like they’re hosting 
a terrible show, and we can pretend 
the pears are tomatoes 
and Boo! instead. 

​

We pluck the pairs from their pile 
and carry them to our front door. 
Was it a better idea? 
To kids, it didn’t matter. 
Anything to pass the time.