The peaches are dropping,
dollar a pound.  Orchardist
at first blush, he drives
the camo four-wheeler,
broken and mended, trades
his walker for the wheel, two
new hips, and a brand-new
kidney, the boy from Greenwich
Village drives toward the heavy trees,
how he blossomed with the Beats, a
camera in his hands, and how he twists
each fruit so gently, to help it let go.
The dapple sun about to dip, our
buckets full, but not too full,
to protect the soft ones
hiding underneath.

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