Imagine a child who has never tasted an orange.
Maybe that was me. Why buy oranges
in a family where one grandmother
was known for lemon meringue pie, the other
for her strawberry shortcake from scratch? 

Now I buy oranges weekly. In winter 
they come from Chile and are sold,
not by the pound like yellow onions, but
89 cents each. In Stevens' poem "Sunday Morning" 
we see a peignoir, coffee, a cockatoo and oranges. 
I don't wear a peignoir or own a cockatoo,
but I do eat oranges. What do poor kids eat? 

"Please, sir, I want some more," Poor Oliver says
and holds out his empty porridge bowl. 
In our land of plenty with its "amber waves of grain," 
Oliver could, in theory, have a second helping,
but would he? If I ruled the world we call America--
forgetting, as we do, Canada, Mexico, and another continent--
I would give every child an orange and another bowl of cereal.