The first fruit I ever stole
came from an old man I don’t know the name of.
I know he couldn’t move
from his La-Z-Boy by the front window.
I know how his gravelly voice boomed across the yard
as he scolded me for taking peaches from his tree.
I don’t know why he cared.
I know my sister would smile when I brought them home.
And I know my brother had this habit—
biting only one side
until he reached the pit.
I don’t know what happened to the old man,
but I know the peaches started something bigger.
I know I later became a thief—
but also had this habit
of giving people fruit when they’d come over.
I don’t know if the old man knew my name,
or if he just called me the brat who stole his peaches.
I know they cut down that peach tree
when I was in ninth grade.
And I know
I’ve never had a peach so sweet
as the ones from the old man’s tree.