One o'clock in the morning,
we connect by phone,
Chicago to Boston. I tell you
about the ugly tomatoes I bought,
your in hysterics. Listen, I say,
they have a their own web site;
take them seriously.
We head to the fruit
while you read me a story,
it's about a poet, nabbed
by the cliche police.
You can hardly read;
I can hardly listen.
ROTFLOAO! We become certifiable
when Tom, Matt and Otto,
("The Authentic Grape Tomatoes") say hello.
I'm happy you had a good day
with your new screwdriver;
you're happy, and still laughing
about the ugly tomatoes. Somehow
we get from the perfectly round tomato,
(exploited and tasteless; engineered
by geeks and pushed over the top
by marketing geeks) that satisfy
everyone but the customer,
to my telling you, Wal-mart
has ripped the souls out of our towns.
You read me a poem. I read you a poem,
Franz Wright's "Publication Date" -
I get to my favorite line-
"A sparrow limps past on it's little crutch saying
I am Federico Garcia Lorca risen from the dead -."
and I'm gone again.
You solve a bump in your epic; I agree.
You read me another poem. We talk about our Kerouac trip
to Georgia. A late, late IM from my daughter
and I have to go; and you're ordering ugly tomatoes.
Good night, Gracie.