My Father's Tomatoes

A  good  tomato
could transform him into a
rank sensualist.

* * *.

Elderly Professor N. luuuhhhvvvvvved
his DIY tomatoes. He got
all but emotional on the subject.

True, when he came to what they sold in stores,
a sneering “what they call tomatoes” crept in,
but otherwise not a whiff of superciliousness,

as his keen proprietary blade sliced
the object of his narration into halves the red
of rage and running blood.

* * *.

Shame, shame on you knife
slicing this horrible wound
in my tasty meat.

* * *.

I dreamed my father sitting at his desk
lifted a tomato to his mouth
and gnawed it like an apple.
Half way around, resting,
he buried his nose in the trough
happy as Bozo the Clown
for anyone who cared to see to see.

* * *.

.Hurricane Helena
	harries the land.

Trees in the forest
	flail like doomsday,

fields struck flat
	by the fearsome reaper,

raindrops beelining
	level as bullets.

He faces upwind
	his cheeks flapping

uphill staunchly
	step by step

gaining ground
	to the vegetable garden

to see how the tomatoes
	had fared so far.

* * *.

Late summer it cracks
and drops. Tiny sugar-ants
chew on its innards.