Tomatoes on the sill

in The Sun’s haze

they wait. Enjoying the sun

that someday will turn them old and bruised.

We are asleep,

and only notice the smell of rotting

in the periphery.

Skin wrinkles like a heartbeat,

it is The Rays’ fault,

but darkness still rots;

Moisture creeps in damp corners—

It is The Carbon!

The Elements!

Do not let this strange cocktail we breathe

take you.

Take them.

Pare them.

They become new.

In this small life,

this red flesh,

The Sun will prevail

taking youth, speckling skin,

but what good is a tomato

that is 80 years old?