red has the flavor of a sun-ripened tomato, green is the scent of its vine

skin taut as a blown-up balloon threatening to burst at the the touch of a finger into a spray of nectar and golden cased seeds

heavy, ready, tugging at the vine to be free; heavy, fragrant, smooth red satin jacketed weight in my palm, resistant to the prick of a knife, bubbling with glistening life.

as was I when the first vine was planted; there's a photo of me with a young man I remember I dated--his name, I recall, was Wayne--standing together

some guy named Wayne, Big Boy tomatoes, and me