Placed among the various other

Bins

& Baskets

In a section of the supermarket,

That doesn’t affiliate in any way

With the bread aisle,

(Except when it comes to fruit, extracted.)

Off in the corner,

Disguised among the regal

 Colors

Of the Oranges and

Limes,

Hide the  elusive Tangerines.

And outside a  strong wind blows,

& Wind-chimes are for sale,

Easily advertising themselves,

By allowing  nobody to speak for them,

And creating sounds like church bells.

In a parking lot emptier than a graveyard.

Caravans of customers

Come from

Municipal mansions and trailers alike,

Adorned with feather boas,

…While stepping over escaped boas.

To

Pick and choose

The best of the very best,

At this bizarre bazaar.

Usually ignoring the corn

&

Inspecting the  apples,

With x-ray eyes,

Down to their very core.

Busy feet scuffle and kick,

Bumping the shelves,

Advocating minor avalanches,

(Minus the ash)

Causing some insects to take cover,

Or be frozen in time…

Without the snow…

Without the snow…

The tangerines hold firm though.

Under the radar,

Like sonar.

Stacked in a way as if mimicking a pyramid,

While serving the very same purpose.

Fluorescent lights flicker overhead,

Providing a secure feeling of incubation,

Keeping the fruit warm.

Keeping the people warm.

&

Illuminating the  important numbers on the receipts,

At the end of each transaction.

The  mysterious tangerines go for 1.38 per pound.

But can never be found.

Their designated area is frequently empty.

Their coffin is frequently unoccupied.

But a dollar thirty eight,

Is still

A bargain considering

The nearly intangible/Tangerine,

Is equal in price to

What the color of the sun,

Would bring at auction.