Poetry: The Secret

Amidst stacked scarlet strawberries,
purply pomegranate pyramids and
orgasmic origami oranges–
visions of perfection, tempting one to capture
their eternal essence–
is a deeper, darker secret.

This is not a food store.

Bushes of vivid green broccoli
in prickly pineapple forests
stand guard, their hair a mess:
sentries shielding the secret.

This is not a food store.

Kaleidoscope of colors and shapes–
cherry swirling with tomato, grape, citron, and lime–
presented to distract, dazzle, defy
those who do not know.

But I do.

This is a factory.
Commercial conglomerate:
profit-producing, money-mongering,
scam. THE illusion.

Instead of the amorous aroma of
ripe oranges, fresh bread, rotisserie chicken–
anything that would make mouths water,
hearts thump, desire demand and stomachs grumble–
there is nothing.
Absence. Emptiness. Sterility.

Garish fluorescent lights,
frigid floor, harsh, stainless steel.
Automated clerks you pay for the privilege
to pack your groceries yourself.
Distant. Detached. Inhuman.

A whole aisle of liquid rainbow–
full of poison and death.
A floral oasis in the middle–
where blossoms have been robbed
of their scentsual allure.

This is not a food store.

Step right up and get your Pop-Tarts,
your Hamburger Helper,
your heart-attack in a box
and slow death in a bag.
Then keep coming back
for more, more, more!
That’s the way they like it
at this circus freak show.

Don’t believe me?
Ask the pomegranates.
But don’t dare photograph them–
they’re protecting their identities.

pomegranates

(c) 2010 Carrie A. Vibert, all rights reserved

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