Walt Whitman was picking
Apples out in the supermarket
Store, or so you thought you

Saw and stood and stared all
Awkward and scared. Such
Eyes and beard and hat and

The fingers turning over the
Apple rubbing the thumb over
The green flesh, bringing to

His nose and sniffing through
The huge moustache the apple’s
Scent. You stood a little back

Just beside the cans of beer
And bottled wine, watching
His every movement, his hat

And clothes, the way he slowly
Peered about with steady stare,
The hugeness, the larger than

Life just standing there with
One solitary apple held in view,
Offering it outward, saying to

You, take a bite lady, sure
Looks good, tell me what you
Think of the apple’s taste and

Smell and taking the apple to
Your mouth to bite with awkward
Care and looked up to say, it’s

Fine, but he wasn’t there, just
A sense of emptiness with scent
Of apples on the morning air.