Garden salad

You crispy foe! You offend me
with your voluminous proportions
and leaves that cast no shadow.

Mouthfuls of suspect origin,
wrought in a factory somewhere outside Modena.
Are you gentle siblings showered by a single hose?
Or refugees brought once together?
So tired and limp of disposition,
cracked and broken, designless and destined
to satisfy the nutritional prescriptions of another lunchtime bistro in a leafy suburb.

As you salt and slide around the plate, I wonder:
what would you have told the worm had you lived in his earth?

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