like after a hot and grumpy six-hour drive,
after we've lugged in suitcases and coolers
and hangers of clothes we'll never wear
in one week. Essential and nonessential
items inside, we drop into two soft chairs,
unable to go on, until we remember the gift
that Dick gave us. Big as a softball and
glaringly red as a summer balloon, it waits
for us in the cooler, and you gingerly place
it in the center of a white plate. I do the
artistic work of slicing it into perfect
seedy circles, and you devoutly sprinkle them
with Sea Salt, and we savor each juicy bite.
Summer, and the sun god's extravagant gift.
We recall Dick's claim that his succulent
tomatoes thrive because every evening, he
carries the perfect martini with one green
olive in a glass Kerr jar out to his garden.
Chair pulled up to the burgeoning plants,
he sips his drink and eats the olive, but
saves that last sip of Tanqueray to anoint
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