What a Tomato Can Be
Home
The last bite of rigatoni and merlot
I shared with my mother.
Away
The sweet-sauced pepperoni pie
Lara ordered last night
at the dive bar off Main—
the one with a neon penguin living
against the wall—a little bird who saw
us for what we were—credit card debt
and student loan payments walking on two’s.
He had a monocle over his right eye
and a beer mug held between flippers.
Familiar
A visit to Pennsylvania. The sandwiches grandpa fixed
whenever he remembered children
needed to be fed. Tomatoes, cheese, mayo, and a Crickets record
spinning under cigarette smoke beside a television set
that's seen four generations walk over
the green carpeted room—a television set that watched us
lie on our bellies and play Clue, place bets
on who would still be alive come 2014.
Tomorrow
The only thing you plant in your garden
the first time home feels like something true.
An evening in Cleveland. Orange sun.
A garlic bulb treading its bath of oil.
Birdsong falling through an open window.
