The Polish Flagpole

The yellow-green fruit rests on the damp earth. I walk toward the telephone pole, the wire humming a low C. The field stretches out, grass short, dusty ochre. The pole stands alone, its base a smear of green paint. I stop by a set of railway tracks, noticing the glass mirror mounted near the signal box. It shows the field as it was three minutes ago: my bare feet just here, the pole slightly further back. I lift the fruit; it weighs exactly eight pounds. A damp grief presses against my ribs, a weight with no source. I turn back to the pole. The telephone wire vibrates. I step across the tracks, feeling the gravel crunch under my shoe.