Tomato Envy

As if it weren’t enough my neighbor’s yard is a shade of green
you might find in the capital of Oz or a postcard from Dublin,
now his tomatoes are ripening. I cannot help but think of them
as you and I make love with the windows open,
summernight breeze just warm enough to be pleasant.
Adog barks far down the block. Someone’s radio is on,
alate Tigers game from the West Coast. These are the small sounds
of a life fallen into place. Urgency
quickens between us, you whisper your desire
and the room fills with orbs the size of fists, crayon red,
so juice-swollen they might burst open at the slightest touch.