Ode to the Fruit Man of Miami

I reminisce about those summer days when you rode around in a truck you surely stole from the Ice Cream Man, enticing little old ladies and housewives galore to your crappy ass four-wheeled store. I, too, couldn’t resist the ring of your bells and the clear plastic bags filled with mangos, papayas, prickly pineapples and plantains. A dollar a bag was a bargain for sure as the fruits ripe with juice proved to be a tantalizing lure. Burdened with my bundle I would return to my kitchen, grateful that you existed. For you, Fruit Man, were a blessing no doubt, delightful enough while distributing the treats of tropic angels.

But now you have a further calling, for I do not live there anymore. I beckon you to come to the city of hills, across rivers and mountains and more. We will trade in your shitty stolen truck for a trolley no less, bigger bells, bigger whistles, because bigger is best. You will take the city by storm and stop at my doorstep because I have chased you long enough. We will rest together for a moment and in that moment, revel in the success of our quixotic quest.