Ripe Tomato at 3 pm
Not a meal, but a Saturday treat.
Heirloom, of course, ripe with memories.
Savoring the process of your hand moving,
slow and smooth, the serrated knife laying
each slice on the bread, each slice layered
with mayo turning pink with juice.
Now held in two hands, that second slice
firmly in place, mayo in a bead, hugging
the crust edge, juice falling to the plate
in languid drops. Eyes closed with each bite,
you relish this simple pleasure.
My pleasure now in recalling this,
bringing you back after so many years
as I take my own bite and savor the memory.
This poem is my response to Poetics Tuesday – food!,
the prompt from Sarah at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.
Image source: washingtonpost.com