The fruit rolled by all day.
They prayed the cogs would creep;
They thought about Saturday pay,
And Sunday sleep.
Whatever he smelled was good:
The fruit and flesh smells mixed.
There beside him she stood,--
And he, perplexed;
He, in his shrunken britches,
Eyes rimmed with pickle dust,
Prickling with all the itches
Of sixteen-year-old lust.
Back to Theodore Roethke
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓
To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.
Comments2lol, this one's full of teenage awkwardness!
I've always been a fan of Theodore Roethke's work. There's something about the way he weaves daily life and raw emotions together that always gets me. 👏🍓💓 Not every writer can do that, you know?