Tomato Plants
Whenever colleagues shared pictures
of their new-borns at work, showing
photos of your yellow flowers
was maybe a bit much, perhaps,
but allow me these small moments
—this has been our first year together.
I’ve tended to you all summer,
putting far more care into that
than any plans for the future.
It’s anything but wasted time
when I’m combing through your branches.
Like a monkey grooming a child,
I remove the sun-swollen ticks
of your fruits every evening.
I’ve been recording my diary straight
onto your thin, reddening skins
before stirring my thinner words
into an autumnal curry,
or palming full Tupperware bowls
onto friends who only accept
as an act of misplaced courtesy.
I can see the looks in their eyes,
and suggest folks in glasshouses
are better off growing tomatoes.
There were two weeks away, fretting
about moisture and snails. I should’ve known
you’d cope without me.