In the late full sun of the MTA 357: a man tanned by nicotine and labor, complexion of a discarded teabag.
      Protective left hand on an oversized box of onions that reads MADE IN CHINA.  Twenty pounds of vidalias — a civic appellation I never pronounce correctly — all a-molt.  Their loosed skins gathered in cardboard corners, our odiferous manna of public transport.  The head of said man was wrapped in sikh fashion, but he was most certainly from Indiana or Montana, or Deluth.
      Eyes a blue cornflower, beard of a Hemingway hero, blustery and full of nature.  
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