"Beware!" they cry, the labels shouting,
in bold black ink on every carton,
a silent dirge for our carefree days.
Caffeine? Cancer. Baby shampoo?
Cancer. The air? Oh yes, even the air.

"Why stop there?" I mutter, peeling a banana.
Does it whisper secrets of formaldehyde
as I break its spine?
"This banana is known to the state of California
to cause despair in lab rats," it might say,
if it could speak past the peel.

"Prop 65 follows you," says my toaster.
It sparks. "You are glowing,
a walking hazard zone,
dripping BPA-laced tears into your coffee."

"Not everything has a label," I reply.
The tree outside—free of warnings,
branches unapologetic as they sway.
But wait. I catch a whiff of its resin.
That familiar tang of maybe-malignancy.

"Your tree, too," the toaster smirks,
"Nature is not immune.
Your lungs inhale its carcinogenic bouquet.
California sees all,
labels all, fears all."

I exhale sharply.
"One day," I snap, "I'll wake up,
look at my hand, and see
‘WARNING: This skin
contains trace amounts of existence,
a substance known to cause death
in 100% of cases.’”

The toaster blinks. "Too late.
You already knew that."