Shall I compare you to the squash of summer?                  
You are rounder, more colorful, and tasty.                           
Slugs leave shiny threads of slime—a bummer—                
On pale misshapen impotent squash while pasty                  
Blossoms shrivel on their tips in midday sun,           
And stick disgustingly to yellowing flesh.                           
Their unkempt vines creep nightly through the lawn
And over the deck, creating a tangled mess.            
But your red beauty only serves to heighten            
My lust, Tomato, temptress of my tongue.                           
Since summer squash grows pallid as you brighten,            
It’s to your luscious bod’ my song is sung.              
          Store-bought tomatoes, reddened off the vine,        
          Can never match sun-ripened globes like thine. 

© by CJ Muchhala.
Used with the author's permission.