1 min read


There's a tomato on our vine,

big as grapefruit

bright as lipstick.

We're not allowed to pick it.


Master will in his own sweet time.


But first he will

prune and groom

dust and fuss

dote and gloat

and show it off to company

'til it spoils past its prime.


Then he'll pick it.


Maybe.


Poor dear, he's never had a baby.