Here you are Barb. This poem is for you.

The Stickies

Yesterday I grabbed a rosy pomaceous
Mackintosh from my fruit bowl;
As I bit this perfect apple,
crunchy meat and juice ran
down my freckled hand. Yet
wedged between my molars,
skin or seed tormented my teeth.
At last a toothpick freed the
bar coded villain—pricing label #4042.
These hideous labels do not wash away,
often bonding with skin and pulp,
refusing removal from the fruit.
Who slaps numbers on my food?
Apples are no longer Delicious or
Gravenstein: they are 4042, 4131, or 4139,
Even my tomatoes bear the brand 4664.
Standing in the produce aisle,
beside the flowers, I sense
no fragrance except the newly waxed floor.
Those Cyclops labels stare at me,
ready to jump into my basket.
Is that glue organic?

Off to the Farmer’s market
with their naked, aromatic fruit.
I will delay the day when I’ll sit
on my porch, peeling labels
from each grape, cursing
the pricing God who labeled them.