I hear old Sandburg wrote poem about them.
We share a jack fruit ,under the same old  sky,
Visible on roadside bark to the passer-by eye.

I do not remember faces ,details of their noses.
They are like jack fruits squatting on the barks.
Their details are lost to rough jagged exteriors.

Open them up like the jack fruit you take home
And find them sweet and swift ,on your tongue,
Whose fragrance turns on childhood nostalgia.

But now they are nameless faces in the crowd.
They may be Jacks or Jills on hills on a tumble
Or aggregates for the national sample survey.

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