Susquehanna Harborside In autumn light that comes drowsy off the river I linger at a table outside the only café open, watch three farmhands from the overloaded bed of their blue pickup shoulder strawberry pallets up Union Avenue. They herald their harvest in loud and urgent syllables to any sidewalk wanderer within range. Their faces bear the look of toys left beneath porches for decades. They must be from out of town somewhere, for most shops here are closed on Tuesdays. But they persist uptown, even as their voices fray, as determined as the deadbolts on shuttered businesses. Knowing the holiday foiled them, I buy a pallet—a loner who knows he’ll never finish it prior to rot—just before the men lose themselves inside the café, each one slumping into a chair, like a hand descending on a shoulder.
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