Home » Poetry » Oranges For Sale

Oranges For Sale

There’s always someone—

Oranges For Sale:

three sacks, mustache

and workman’s hands.

Standing by the on-ramp,

squatting by the freeway—

sweating for a sale.

Though I never seem to buy

or anyone else for that matter,

they’re always selling—

a language

we don’t

speak.

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