One would give emeralds
for what was not bought from the pear man
who stood in hot, blank sunlight
of a late Sunday afternoon
that seemed finally to be putting on a hat
and lowering its eyes, touching the sea
with soles of old walking sandals.

He holds the fruit like a man accustomed
to selling irons and pots, or pens emblazoned
with unspecified Hags; as if he can hardly guess
a salesman’s words about them,
as if doubts still linger concerning “pears”
which doesn’t suit their brown awkwardness,
how they tumble sideways left on their own.

You don’t mean to turn around,
but he senses your interest more quickly than you
and holds out a bag of pears as if they were pearls:
something of bewildering value
with which he would sooner part.
Chuff-chuff go his shoes
against the pavement as he halts.