I can’t remember my first tomato
(who remembers a first tomato?)
and I don’t want to remember my last,
because—you know—it will be the last;
but I want to remember in all its ripeness,
its tang-on-the-tongue bursting sweetness,
that next-to-last tomato to grace
a salad or sauce I’ll ever taste
before such a thing as tomatoes
matter to me no more.

Call me the sentimental type.
I’ve developed quite a crush on living
in this world, despite the difficulties
of finding a reliable plumber
on a holiday weekend or making a left
turn against traffic during rush hour.
I figure since I’ve come this far,
nearly three quarters of the way in,
I want to hang around long as I can
just to see what happens next.

So I’ve taken to watching people more
and the news less. I’ve started listening
to voices on the street and in stores
instead of the noise that engulfs me
daily. And I watch with fascination
the choices people make, especially
when it comes to tomatoes in the grocery.
Why that particular one, why that variety?
What drives us to choose the things we do
one moment to the next?

I concentrate now on the taste and texture
of every tomato I buy and slice, boil, or bake,
figuring this one might be the penultimate
to bring the dish I’m preparing
that distinctive tomato flavor. As long as I can
remember this one, I say to myself,
there will always be one more tomorrow
that I’ll get to savor again. It’s a game
I play with myself, and with every next tomato
I win.


From Toes, Toads, Tulips & Turtles: A Miscellany of Verse (Four Windows Press, September 2022).
Used here with permission.