by Don Franks
when I least expect it,
All the ones
who grow and pick and pack the tiny red neat bright tomatoes
shell the ground nuts, turn their blood and sweat into my wine
discard the doubtful salad leaves
trip over bearing clumps of heavy green bananas
brew, can, forklift, shelfstack chill my beer, drive all the trucks
spin out the smiley miles of shining plastic bags,
One day they’ll come, to settle the account
“I payed the right amount.
When I had strolled the air conditioned cloister until I was done
I held my magic card up.
According to the law.
Why are you coming now, you merciless assassins