Tomato
by Tom Joyce

On my kitchen counter I saw a red tomato.
Sat beside it was a brown potato.

I picked up the tomato and cautiously continued;
I gazed into its shiny luster,
It smiled at me.
I went to the cutting board
Carrying it with me.

I smiled back, to hide my intent,
I pulled out a knife and hid it behind my back.
I held the tomato, covered its eyes.

I sliced evenly through its skin, its seeds, its juicy insides.
I cut it into slivers and diced it.

I peeled the potato and its skins hit the ground.
I picked them up and threw them away.
I cleaned the floor.
I ate the tomato.
I ate the potato.
Did they even exist?