I can say only what I saw:

A migrant, black, dust-laden,

With a basket in the store.

He’d picked out bread

Then looked at the tomatoes

Ripe, plump and red.

He didn’t take the freshest

From the stack, but reached

Behind the juiciest to the back

For the tomato with a blemish,

A spot of rot where once

A splinter in the wooden box

Had snagged its silk smooth skin.

He turned it over in his hand,

Squeezing gently, then placed it

In his basket with the bread

I watched him at the counter

When his turn came round.

Pointing to the tomato,

As if it were a treasure found,

He asked, “How much?”

The cashier set it on a scale.

“43 cents,” she said, “on sale.”

The laborer checked his change,

Shook his head and mumbled

He’d just take the bread.

I saw him leave the store

With only half-a-loaf

And watched the red tomato

As it was tossed into the trash.