Just West of Amarillo

I pull off the road
park under a tree
and roll down my windows

I reach over
and pull out a plastic bag
from my pack

It holds half a pomegranate

As I pick at it
I think back to the December
when I was ten
and my smiling Mom
with stories of Christmas oranges
and that red round fruit

I wipe my purple-splattered fingers
on a white paper napkin
to the raucous calls
of grackles in the grass
that suddenly stop
with a siren
and the rapid passing
of an ambulance