Prompt: Fiction. Ghost Tomato.

A Comedian

On his last breath,
on his last day alone,
a tomato appears
on his nightstand.

He titters
off the stage.

How many people does it take to build a tomato?

The hungry man dreams himself fed,
imagines a radiant orange-red
tomato on the street.
It is sheer in direct sight,
vanishes in the sunlight.
Still a treat.

And this is the core of every nostalgia I find him in.

He reaches for my hand
and I give it.

He opens my palm,
and I soften.

He places a ghost fruit
on my still empty palm,
and I hold that
invisible gift
to my loveline.

He asks me to guess
and I say tomato.

He laughs like I’m right,
and I know
I’ll never know
for sure.

Bird’s Eye Lesions Bite Back

The ghost tomato
has no pith nor fade,
no sludge nor mold.

And even if perfection
could be held firm enough
to bite,

it would not
drip
down your chin,
salt-trail
your tongue,
and bite you back.