The Fruit Seller Poem by David Bastiani

I wander down
the stairs and out
into the street
with my hair still wet
from the shower
and feel the breeze
cold and fresh against my skin.

The fruit seller has
beaten me to it
again,
with his cart
bright against
the concrete grey
of the tower block
behind him.

Hills of golden lemons
gleam
in place of the sun
which is still in hiding
behind the cypress trees.
And I can already taste
the oranges
from across the street.
A smile of bananas
curves around
the sweetest tomatoes,
plump with juice and
waiting like lips
to be kissed.

I walk past again
in the pink afternoon
but the fruit seller
has wheeled off his cart
and disappeared
leaving behind
a hundred peelings
from the sun
lying in their fading glory
at my feet.