Late August | Creative Writing | Seven Days | Vermont's Independent Voice

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Late August




I stepped outside

to pick tomatoes after the rain

barefoot, shirtless, end of summer

Filling my hands with basil

twisting plump tomatoes

from their wiry green vines,

I juggled them carefully

on the way back to the house,

feet soaked from the wet grass

I came back inside

And New Orleans was underwater

Mississippi, I guess, floated

about a mile in the other direction

from what I could tell

from the TV

I set the tomatoes down on the counter

turned them over in my hands

wiped off the dirt and wet leaves

from the ripe skins

I traced my little finger along their bulging scars:

They were so goddamn big

that they were splitting in two,

like a giant, red heart

from a children's book.

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