Grapefruit at the Peace Arch

Her dark eyes danced and winked
as she hugged her daddy's Arab knee and
fidgeted like Raven.

Dad and mom smiled patience,
waiting in line to be hassled some more
before re-entering the land of bounty.

We stood behind them, my Lakota friend and I
discussing in hushes just how tight an ass
one must maintain for a job behind this counter.

Our offense, beside “redskins in public,” was
that we bought two grapefruits in Vancouver, and
ate only one, saving the other for later.

As skins, we’re acquainted with hassle, but
“homeland security” is hassle’s meaner cousin,
rubbing palms together, savoring this Arab family.

In a plastic grocery bag from Kerrisdale
our sweet culprit grapefruit nestles alongside
her brother's peeled skin, never to be eaten.

Our innocent grapefruit, a beautiful texas pink,
sacrificed to send these ghostly border dicks on a cold trail
while we smuggle my revolution back into their USA.

©2005 Thomas Hubbard