by Michael Sandler
I usually begin with almond milk
(from orchards siphoning the Colorado?)
then plunk in yoghurt, banana, a few berries
possibly picked by migrants—I’ve seen them stooped
and wish there was a way of thanking them
also for the kale-spinach-Swiss chard mix
of nutrients few of us get enough of,
helping me vaunt the goodness of this shake.
Top it with protein powder refined and baked
(on a robotic line?, the staff let go?,
their health care scrapped for some economies?).
I press Frappé and the medley loops
a vortex sucking all that should be wholesome
to an elixir, one they say can fix
lots of deficiencies—a smoothie’s suave
assurance that no one’s been bilked?