if you weren’t a superstar
I’d make you my produce guy
(the green apron would suit you)
and I’m sure you’d know your stuff
I’d shop three times a week
if only for a glimpse of you
the curly-haired boy
cradling peaches in his palms
Excuse me, could you please tell me
Where are the rutabagas?
I ask politely, and you whisk me away
where the ripe fruits lay in wait
beneath the fine mists of the sprinkler system
how quickly my kitchen fills with souring produce
each exotic purchase a mere excuse
to view my curly-haired Joe
handling melons
Hello again, I was just wondering
do you by chance carry jicama?
"hee-kah-mah" you correct my pronunciation
“They’re from Mexico – where it’s hot and humid
their juicy flesh quenches the thirst”
still we never exchange more
than sweet talk and smiles
no bodily fluids or phone numbers
whether prince or peasant
whether superstar or produce clerk
you remain untouchable
and you still have no clue what you’re missing
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