Old Mr. Matterson’s down at the market
Each Saturday without fail.
People’ll warn you away from the fella
But I’m here to tell you a tale.
Folks’ll be sayin’ you can’t stop to chatter
With Matterson, ‘less you got time
To hear ’bout tomatoes for hours and hours.
“That much tomato talk should be a crime.”
One Saturday mornin’, I needed tomatoes,
And Matterson had the last ones.
“I need some tomatoes,” I told him, “Can’t stay, though –
Sorry, but I gotta run.”
“Pear-shaped tomatoes’ll have better flavor
Year-round than the round ones’ve got,”
He continued: “But this time o’ year, it’s the heirlooms
or heritage that hit the spot.”
“Now, green tomatoes,” he soldiered right on,
“Eat ’em green – that’s perfectly fine.
Or, let ’em sit and turn ripe, if you wanna.
They’re better, though, ripe from the vine.”
“Matterson-” I couldn’t help it- “Why is it
You so love tomatoes?” I asked.
“I don’t,” ‘swhat he said, and I started to chuckle,
But I noticed he hadn’t laughed.
“My wife loved tomatoes,” he said with a smile,
A smile as sad as a smile can be.
“She talked ’bout tomatoes from mornin’ to night –
Drove me ’bout crazy, you see.”
“But if I could once again talk of tomatoes
With her… But I guess it’s too late.”
So Saturday stop by the stall of Old Matterson.
Tomatoes are good; conversation is great.
Gabriella Writes 