Factory strawberries

A youngish man condemned, possibly guilty.
Among the decencies conserved by rope and shriek
is this: the criminal may choose his final meal.

'Wild strawberries', he says.
Soft red lanterns flecked with seed, wild ones
from the places where he played
in unthinkable boyhood, later pined for sweethearts,
then lived rough.

An officer dispatched must strain
on foot up over the brow of the hill,
angina tightening cords around his chest.

He sees the sheds and shacks that house the poor,
and plantain leaves like despots' umbrellas,
and thinks: 'No strawberries here. Guy's a fool.' And buys
a tin at a mom-and-pop, and also beer.

Seeing the factory strawberries in a dish,
dark as meat, and over-sweet, decayed,
the prisoner can smile again.
He knows this taste of old.