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Poem	A man roams the streets with a basket of freestone peaches hollering, "Peaches, peaches, yellow freestone peaches for sale." My grandfather in his prime could outshout the Tigers of Wrath or the factory whistles along the river. Hamtramck hungered for yellow freestone peaches, downriver wakened from a dream of work, Zug Island danced into the bright day glad to be alive. Full-figured women in their negligees streamed into the streets from the dark doorways to demand in Polish or Armenian the ripened offerings of this new world. Josef Prisckulnick out of Dubrovitsa to Detroit by way of Ellis Island raised himself regally to his full height of five feet two and transacted until the fruit was gone into those eager hands. Thus would there be a letter sent across an ocean and a continent, and thus would Sadie waken to the news of wealth without limit in the bright and distant land, and thus bags were packed and she set sail for America. Some of this is true. The women were gaunt. All day the kids dug in the back lots searching for anything. The place was Russia with another name. Joe was five feet two. Dubrovitsa burned to gray ashes the west wind carried off, then Rovno went, then the Dnieper turned to dust. We sat around the table telling lies while the late light filled an empty glass. Bread, onions, the smell of burning butter, small white potatoes we shared with no one because the hour was wrong, the guest was late, and this was Michigan in 1928.
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