The vegetable plants out back have pretty much had it.
A handful more of the hatch chiles, we think.
Four final tomatoes, red and round and gorgeous.
We ate BLTs this summer like they were going out of style,
relishing the fruits of our meager garden,
pioneers with our hands on our hips,
dirt under our nails,
shading our eyes from the sun.
We worked for these tomatoes.
Or, I did. I worked for them.
You don’t like tomatoes,
neither do I if I’m being honest.
But I tended dutifully
and dutifully, you ate.
Wow a garden tomato,
we would say.
There’s just something about it.
If I could,
I would smash this mountain of dishes with a ball peen hammer
and we would sand down the sharp edges
to line next year’s beds.
A mosaic,
we’ll tell them.
Handmade.
The possums and the raccoons will come and go
And we’ll eat sandwiches and chips
off of paper
and never look back.