by Glenda Beall
Ruby tomatoes in small tan
baskets
beg me to buy my lunch.
Overalled
and raisin brown, he sits
slumped
on the tailgate of a rusty
red pickup,
his floppy hat a shade
against the burning sun.
Will the two-dollar baskets
buy
groceries to take home to the
waiting
wife who helped him pick the
plump fruit?
Or will he go by Bernie's
Quik Stop
buy a six-pack or two, and
cigarettes
that stain his teeth, tar his
lungs?
He thanks me for my business, but his faded
eyes belie a mind that's
somewhere else.
Today takes care of today.
Tomorrow
he'll be here again, the
tomatoes
redder, softer, a few fresh
ones
sprinkled in, to appeal to
people
who smile and speak,
but never see him.
This poem won first place in the Clay County Poetry Contest many years ago.
Sorry for replying so late. I hardly ever use this computer. This is my kind of poem Glenda. How it reminds me of summer, tomato sandwiches and it allow me to wonder about the man in the poem. Good job! Glenda Barrett
ReplyDeleteThank you, Glenda, for reading and leaving a comment. I am glad you like this poem. The poem was triggered by a man selling tomatoes off his truck down by Lake Chatuge many years ago.
ReplyDelete