Michael Redhill


Jean said
stake the tomato plants
no matter how small they are.
Here, the wind tears them out.
Two sets of poles lean
against each other,
empty teepees.
The green plants are bound
with soft cloth in that
meagre shelter.

He watches from his balcony. I imagine
he says to his wife, That man
does not know what he is doing

Last summer
we found a crate of tomatoes
on the washing machine, the fence
between our houses
was open. I could do
the same for him this year.

But this summer, he says,
he’ll probably die.