Tomatoes (A Poem)

In honor of my home state of Washington legalizing human composting I dug up (hahaha) an old poem where I consider the alternative to burial or cremation, although I didn’t know it was a thing at the time I certainly was intrigued by the idea and the beauty it holds in it.


If an heirloom tomato were

a body part,

might it be a kidney.

Quartered and sliced

aspirating a fine mist

seeds and juice spill

and soak into the cutting board.

A cherry tomato would be an eyeball,

of course.

The only difference between

the old me, listening to Led Zeppelin III

and me listening now,

is that I now have the wisdom to not

try to hit the high notes.


An over-ripened Roma

might be a thyroid gland,

or boiled and peeled it

becomes a swollen lymph node.

Slices become columns,

now juice and seeds are puddling,

columns into squares.

Of course the Beefsteak would be

the typical enlarged American heart.

Maybe when I die I could be composted

by the state, then They could sell me to

gardeners across the region.

My final act of charity.

7 responses to “Tomatoes (A Poem)”

  1. It all boils down to one revolving one.

    1. That’s the beauty of it isn’t it…

  2. nice! i’ve got a little
    bin to crawl into 🙂

    1. But, but, but, but, they can’t monetize that!

      1. true dat!
        but, imagine selling solid
        gold eternal compost bins 🙂

      2. Haha! Imagine the jealousy of all the other composters and their family member’s when they see YOUR eternal gold compost bin!

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