Carol Hamilton

We walked up the hill
to the south of our hotel
near Toledo, El Greco’s view
of the city from our north window.
We tried tight green olives
from a tree as we walked,
Muriel and I, and like
the hungry ancients,
found it bitter fruit.
We climbed the road
toward a mansion,
halfway up were chased off
by those mounted on machines
from which they tended the trees.
In early days, the bits and pieces
leftover from the perfect fruits
were a meal for the poor.
The wealthy ate the best
as first course.

Our return
back down the hill
was no less pleasant
than the climb. We were
ordained not to care
if all we got that day was
rejection and bitter bites,
we already on our way
to our next over laden table.