fruit man wakes at dawn
lines up his apples and peppers
grunts his good-mornings
and sighs at my enept tongue
trying to form the names of what I'm hungry for.
his face is netted by creases
shadowed by a brimmed hat pulled down low
he peers through thick, broad glasses
rough hands on the delicate skin
of a plum
squinting at a scale
hanging in the morning light.
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