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I stepped outside
to pick tomatoes after the rain
barefoot, shirtless, end of summer
Filling my hands with basil
twisting plump tomatoes
from their wiry green vines,
I juggled them carefully
on the way back to the house,
feet soaked from the wet grass
I came back inside
And New Orleans was underwater
Mississippi, I guess, floated
about a mile in the other direction
from what I could tell
from the TV
I set the tomatoes down on the counter
turned them over in my hands
wiped off the dirt and wet leaves
from the ripe skins
I traced my little finger along their bulging scars:
They were so goddamn big
that they were splitting in two,
like a giant, red heart
from a children's book.
Speaking of , poem
-
Hackie: An American Story
Sep 20, 2017 -
Free Will Astrology (9/20/17)
Sep 20, 2017 -
Letters to the Editor (9/20/17)
Sep 20, 2017 -
Crossword (9/20/17)
Sep 20, 2017 -
Memoriam: John J. Malcovsky, 1948-2017
Sep 20, 2017 - More »
