Tomato

Synapse Storytelling Contest second place winner for poetry.

Tomato /tə’mɔ:dö/ 

On Sundays like these, 

I’m paralyzed by curiosity

playing psychic as I do laundry.

it’s chop chop chop ‘til six from half three.

but could I’ve a sous chef, 

us cooking for six over three?

I must admit I do get bored 

tidying shelves and mopping 

floors

as though I’m paving the way for the answer

to this problem: 

how can two go into one 

without making a fractional crunch?

The dagger of being 

so free 

is that you can clean 

and construct until your last sleep

but there will always be a blemish

a spot that just you can’t reach;

the humanly quest stays incomplete.

It steeps. 

It simmers.

Like the pasta sauce on my hob.

I’d like you here on Sundays like these.