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.