This is a poem that came from a six I wrote months ago....
He's only two years old
but he already knows what a Cheeto is.
Knows what orange powdered cheese-food corn puff is
but never has pulled a carrot from the dark earth,
washed it off in the waterhose,
crunched into tender sweetness.
The words "corporate culture"
make a scream in my soul;
I wish for more black dirt,
more imperfect carrots,
sun-warmed cherry tomatoes,
more fat cucumbers with prickles on them.
All of the two-year-olds in the world this morning,
tucked away in their square containers,
insulated from weather
and cats with stickers in their toes
and earthworms that would squirm in tiny hands
and wind that would bite their cheeks
and overzealous dogs that would knock them down on their diapered bottoms,
eat sanitary chemicals,
unwrapped from plastic
served by caretakers,
recognizing that cheetah on the package
and the chemical burn on the tongue.