by Theodore Roethke
     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.