Originally posted here in September of 2015.
Dates to 2000 or so following the death of a close friend at Easter that year; the original is long lost.
This is an attempt to recreate it, knowing I’m no longer the person who wrote that original. 

RIP, Terry Warren.

I come home
craving tomatoes.
I go to my backyard bed

and pick whatever’s ripe
for my favorite summer meal: 
thick-sliced plum tomatoes,

Gorgonzola cheese, 
a few shreds of basil, 
balsamic vinegar, light on the olive oil.

You once questioned me:
why not the more traditional Mozzarella?
I said it’s because I feel that 

strong blues make flavors pop
and without strong flavors,
what’s the point?  

You tasted it, agreed, told me later 
you could no longer imagine 
not using a strong blue cheese

in a tomato salad, and I was as well pleased
as I could be 
that we’d fallen once again into 
the same place on something.

I remember this as I stare into
strong blues and bright reds in this bowl,
stare into oil bubbles,


a brown slick of vinegar, remember

you weren’t here to help me 
plant this year, to plant the beds with me


scant weeks after your passing;
weren’t here to help me weed
and toss and water and feed;


realize as if for the first time
that you aren’t here to help me savor 
the likely last summer salad of the year,


picked ahead 
of the inevitable 
killing frost.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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