Every spring my grandmother tills a corner of the garden to grow the poor man's orchid for its delicate, butterfly-like blooms.

By midnight, the poor man's sauce had him clutching his stomach and counting the minutes until morning.

The court poor boxes were overflowing after the community fundraiser.

She baked a poor man's cake using only pantry staples when money was tight.

At the seaside tavern, we ordered a plate of poor man's caviar, which tasted surprisingly rich when spread on warm bread.

In spring, the villagers picked poor man's asparagus from the hedgerows and blanched it for a simple supper.

At the seaside bistro, I ordered poor knights of Windsor with maple syrup and berries.

She spread poor man's butter on the toast because it was all she could afford.

She tucked a sprig of the poor man's weatherglass behind her ear, believing its tiny blossoms would warn her of coming rain.

At the inn, the landlord served a poor man of mutton to the weary traveler.