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.
