The Peach Basket

mister robito grows his sunday tomatoes
in the hands dark earth of his own making
softly enthusiastically sings italian love songs 
to his loving wife rose
smiling in her yellow roses
smiling tomatoes

from rusty cages
the luscious weight
ripeness
of the fruit red
red green
green
fight the august sun
pull the vines back to earth
back to his smooth and
choosing hands
each one
gently set into
the peach basket

in the humidity
of everything tinton
incongruously cat birds do what they do
moving deeply into the honeysuckle
humming bees linger with each new sweetness
the thin iron stream flows weakly to the falls
maple leaves stick together
shade themselves
the sun seems to sweat
dressed in heavy clouds

in all of this
mister robito retreats to his shaded place
drinks the young red wine made
from neighbor's grapes
pulls the smoke deeply
releasing it from his lungs
to the wet air
considers the sweet tartness
of him and rose and the garden
the chance of rain softening
his earth

listens to the radio from the window
the yankees are winning
he imagines yogi here with him

with rose

his tomatoes

JP Pestana October 18, 2016