Berries Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Berries

On my way,
Morning time,
Saw workers,
Of Punjab,
Men, women,
Old and young.

Saw plants,
Of berries,
Blueberry,
Raspberry.

Saw plants,
Like soldiers,
All lined up,
Set to march.

On return,
Two machines,
Mexicans,
And baskets.

Machine picked?
Or Handpicked?

Asked sellers,
Some ladies!

I questioned,
That and this,
And did learn,
Researching!

Money goes to dealers,
Not workers, laborers,
Not needy or orphans!

Yes, this is everywhere,
With police, governments,
Synagogues and Churches,
To Mosques and preachers!