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.