My mink is a banana, slung at great cost
on this coat hook, in-country
miles from the land where someone picked it green
puckered in its balloon of plastic
to keep the bugs away,
to qualify as organic, pure, untouched
by chemical cleansing or genetic besting.
It’s here to cream my shake into
A whipped delight of kale-laced morning shine,
to bring a spark to the cheek,
bartered for my breakfast,
shipped packed in a labeled box.
They come in cardboard marked Dole,
Del Monte, from Asia or Ecuador,
negotiated fruit from the tropics
to my door, a history of World Bank
maneuverings, worth pennies at the root
to accompany a morning
bought at a cost no day’s labor could afford.