The Fruit Man’s Son is Dead

I didn’t see the fruit man’s canvas covered stand today
He sells pluots, persimmons and jujubes
He’s a fat man with long grey hair who smiles and learns your name
Who cried when we talked about his dad
I’d carry home a bag of fruit for the week
Tucked between my feet on the train
And people would place their eyes upon it
And I’d wonder what they wonder
Last week he rolled his hand through the persimmons
As I handed him my bills
He pinched their little bodies with his chubby careful hands
And he gave me one on him
A ripe sagging bag of red
As his thin quiet wife stepped by to say hello
And I spread its orange insides on my toast the morning after
“His son died on the way to a funeral,” someone told me.
“He might be back in January.”