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Simple wood-and-paper fruit stand,
tattered sign tacked across the front,
stands strangely deserted
in a white February,
necklaced in icicles,
frosted with snow.
Like a faithful dog,
it stares down the road,
awaiting its owner's return.
And where might its owner be, just now?
No doubt, spending his apricot money
in Aruba, mayhap.
Definitely spending his hard-earned pear bucks
touring the castles along the Rhine,
I'd like to think.
Or maybe, just maybe, he's tossing his apples
to the wind
and taking the trans-Canada train.
Could be.
Of course, he's just as likely to be tucked
inside that little brown house,
with one sleeve rubbing out a little hole
in the frost-rimed glass
and staring out at the half-buried back
of his fruit stand,
staring and wishing,
and now his sleeve is cold.
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