Red tomato

bologna, dill pickle chip, mustard

that was the sandwich almost everyday

except when my father had a poker party the night before and

I had the leftovers of the treats

crazy canapes with liverwurst and olives and stacked party sandwiches

sweet and sour wings and blue cheese stuffed celery

and toothpicks with purple frizzles on the top

the teacher peeked over into my lunch box

and I was somehow embarrassed that I didn't have pbj

and she couldn't figure out the kid

with the anchovy decorating the cream cheese

winter months brought tomatoes as

the Bahama red dirt, dense as clay, full of nutrients

cooled and loosened and yielded

tomatoes

ripe and red and perfectly imperfect from the field

perfect in the tart sweet juicy flavor

and a tiny bit of salt wrapped in wax paper

and I ate it out of hand

biting in carefully so the pulp and seeds and juice didn't spurt

the first bite was the hardest and most careful

once the taut, slightly tough skin, was pierced

the tomato was mine to relish slowly

and at times the seedy pulp would drop in a clump

a sticky held together clump I could pluck off my shirt

I dipped into the salt, tomato in one hand, salt in the other

each bite was too much salt or none but it evened out

it was what we had, tomatoes by the box, by the bucket

no chips, no sweets, not a choice of healthy or heirloom

it was what we had

from the island farms, bought from a guy in a truck and we put tomatoes in

everything when they were in season

I loved them as well as guavas, and almost as much as sapodilla

I paid my allowance once for an apple from the store

and gave it to my horse but she wouldn't eat it

I never gave her tomatoes that I remember

but I ate one everyday