“The Tomato” by John Grey

You look up
out of your box
at a green green world,
grin on your face
overcoming the grimaces
of the likes of 
cauliflower, cabbage
and Brussel sprouts.
and wide enough
to show no shame
at your satiny red skin.

For there are others like you
sprouting in the field,
not burrowed into dirt,
or sitting like an overgrown
green frog in a nest,
but clinging to vines,
juicy and plump
and ready for plucking,
squeezing in beside you.

You’re headed for
the finest Italian restaurant in the city.
These greens are on their way
to suburban kitchen tables
where they will come between
mothers exhorting kids to
“eat your greens”
and those same kids pulling faces 
like a rabbit eating onions.

Some of you are for the sauce.
Some for the salads.
All for the same fat priest.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dalhousie Review, Thin Air and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Qwerty, Chronogram and failbetter.