A Poem

The Papaya Lie

 

Bright orange against the black ceramic plate,

Left over from my young son’s lunch.

I pluck a piece with my finger tips, sweet fleshy pulp.

Where did it come from? Not from my earth.

How far did it travel?

Whose sun-browned fingers picked them,

To fly to the home of this pale Westerner?

I taste the privilege of tropical fruit

And it tastes like a lie.

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