The tomato plants are in terra cotta, an idea I had back in the spring, knowing I wouldn't want to leave big leafy mamas behind during the move to our new home. I carried each by hand the block-and-a-half from there to here, while various neighbors watched and smoked cigs on their porches.
That was a month ago. Now, as I've said, tomatoland is right underneath Eleanor's bedroom window. Most mornings and some nights, we'll look down upon tomatoland, and Ella will say, "Hi, tomatoes. We're going to eat you!" And what are we having for dinner tonight? BLT's!
But now it is 11 a.m., Bukowski, and I'm crafting my syllabus, last minute, always at the last minute, and the sunlit retarded men in jean shorts, whose bodies are shaped like ducks' bodies, are hurling weekly newspapers against the vinyl siding of the houses.
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