The Sweet-Lime Juice guy
stands at an opposite to me
curiously oblivious of his position
as he tortures the benevolence
out of fruits that had other ambitions.

His stall is at a crossroads,
for he shirks the automatic
for that which requires
the exultation of his labor
so as to keep a cost down.

And never one to preen
on matters of hygiene,
he stands brave
against the skirmishes
of the flies with his customers.

We both have our devices
and we each have our means
but as I ponder in legality (and in poetry)
he tortures for a living
and makes a killing.

He is gone now,
driven out by the bad apples
who have forsaken his claim
on this garden of Eden.
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Dedicated to all those emmigrants who are opposed by natives!