It’s cherries to have been born 
into the most powerful country,

white and male, comfortably
middle class, never made 

to work the fields
at five years old picking the ready crop,

scrub clothes along the riverside,
or put our tender hearts 

through the meat grinder of war,
to have pissed in the stream,

cooked the crawdad alive, 
pulled our compadres

from the top of the hill 
storm clouds roiling

the blunt horizon —

to have claimed the summit
as if we owned the thing.