The kitchen basket is almost empty
a single red tomato moated with sunlight 
waits for my touch 
Time is short, blooms of mold 
will soon claim it and I don’t want to lose
this object of my tongue’s lust
Perfectly ripe, its sleek skin 
hints at a tantalizing split 
ignored for now
and I dismiss the temptation
to ravish without finesse
preferring the small pleasures
of anticipation
Slices fanned onto a blue moroccan plate
dressed in a squeeze of lemon, green olive oil
and basil slivers
become lunchtime’s non pareil
Each piece a grapeshot burst against my lips
already parted in pleasure