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.