The poem
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.
Wow, a poem about a boner. Fascinating.
("shrunken britches" you sly dog!)
A most wonderful image of transporting produce, full of liquid juices and sweet scents. The poem itself smells of fruit juices as well as the juices of pubescent desire and longing. As the apples and pears have come into their prime and are ripe for picking, so is the "flesh" of maturing children.