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.