Fodschwazzle

Waiting for a shuttle
to scuttle us far
from a thick city, giant steel
waffles in the sky perching on
concrete chopsticks, smothered
in an ashen syrup of diesel
fumes. Two old women
stroll with their hands
stitched behind their backs

baskets on their arms.
They walk to trees that
leap out of the pavement
and shake them until their branches
are bare of berries.
Confused, we try it too—
the brown fruit smells like rotten
cheese. One woman says

“Gingko.”
They start to wave at their baskets,
point at us, and pretend to shake
the tree. We dance up and down
the sidewalk, kicking trunks,
grabbing stinking fruit, and
making old women grin.

Life transcends language when
the women trade butter cookies
for berries, memories
to carry home.