Don't get me wrong ... I love Whole Foods and shop there when I can afford it. Food marketing drives me up the wall, though, and the cries of "fresh", "artisan", "house-made", and "all-natural" from every box & package are a little much.
This poem is only published here.
Shopping at Whole Foods
I'll have the celebration toffee and Christmas nuts to start,
with sugar-free caramel-crusted kidney beans.
And please pass the butternut-honey glaze
so I can rub it on this quivering ham. The lucky pig
was raised vegan, petted often, and hand-fed
Pacific hemp pollen-pitted flower silk.
The steaming soup is a communion cup
of compassionately-formed alphabet letters
in italic font. The brown rice cheddar bunnies
are winter-blended and hopped up with sea salt.
The chef has finished the pie crust, under which
a lovely jam-infused breakfast sausage
nestles in its bed of cinnamon rice. Remember,
I only eat oysters if their meat has a hint of plum
and they're harvested humanely in mermaid country,
where every Honey Crisp I crunch drips oil of myrrh,
is mountain-grown, shot with veins of edible gold,
and plucked like an angel's harp
played for me while I sip and suck—
oh scent, oh smoke, oh whiskey and white peppercorn.
Lemon me delirious, fresh-bake me.