The Outsider: A poem about mushy red bags
|By Will Jones - The Outsider | October 5 2017|
An ode to the frost as it signals a summer now lost.
A summer that never got started, then finally it spat and it farted into a heat wave for one week that made our white bodies blister, our knees go weak.
But, now, back to cold mornings and nights drawing in,
Golden rods with white tips, crystal grass and crisp foggy dawns, dew laden spider webs decorating our lawns.
Like summer, lost as well, my tomatoes all gone to hell,
Turned from plump fruit to bruised bags of gloop in just one night.
Every year tis a sign of my absentminded bungling, my failure to fight, to protect my lacklustre garden.
It’s a pitiful sight as I draw back the curtains and see the glorious sparkling white.
Swear under my breath at how quickly summer can take flight,
As I glance from twinkling tree to bush, to tomatoes turned to mush,
And this year it’s worse, that frosty curse.
Coming on the heels of the 35 degree days,
We stumble into fall as Mother Nature plays games with our minds, our bodies and our garden beds.
She’s in cahoots I think, with weeds and eight-year-old feet,
As she conspires to destroy any lingering hopes for the fruits of my less than green finger.
And even worse still, she has all but killed any hope that I might,
Harvest a crop, photograph bowls of plump fruit and smugly post pics on social media sites.
Instead, I’ll go online, looking for commiserating words as I whine about the weather,
And, how, never has it been so cruel.
And all the while, those in the know, those with covered tomatoes,
Will snicker and think me a fool for letting my plump red orbs turn to mush.
But, it’s OK because they’ll press ike’ and I’ll feel a little better,
As fall races in and the frost turns to snow.
I’ll feel somewhat consoled at least,
Until, having forgotten this October’s farce, next fall comes around,
And the frost and my tomatoes once again give me a kick in the arse.
WILL JONES - is The Outsider