Urban Indian

Picking almonds in the parking lot of the laundromat, I become furtive, suspicious of pedestrians and automobilists, invisible. If the owner of this tree should drive up and protest, could I claim a right that supersedes his right? Could I claim a need? Or a feeling, by virtue of what I couldn’t make him understand, that these almonds are mine? But no one seems to notice. People walk by, drive by, park right next to me, and don’t even turn a head. A few black almonds still stick to their stems, left over from the summer before. 3 August 1985

LOT NO. 9,000