The food on my table has no label,
no name of the founders who traided
with the natives when they had no word
yet for ownership. No snappy slogan etched
in cardboard in order to convey health
despite the fact we know it’s meal and sugar.
But I know a hand must have tilled the field,
picked it from the soil, chose it from a lot
of rejects, bagged it, packed it, trucked it.
And I’d guess their name wasn’t Kellogg
or Dole, or Kraft, or Johnson. The meal
was grand, an honor to anonymous hands.