On finding old cherry tomatoes in the back of the refrigerator

Why do I feel sad, pulling them from the back with some resistance from a bit of old green Jell-O gluing their container to the clear glass shelf

their red firm flesh when I bought them, cylindrical and perfect; I paid twice what they were worth in order to have that pop-into-my-mouth sweet satisfaction–how I don’t bite with teeth but compress between tongue and roof of the mouth until

pop

the juices wash over tongue and teeth and slide down the throat–

and now I see the puckered old skin and raisin-like rind, and I almost cry for what is lost what was and what could have been

in a salad, or sitting on a plate plump, ripe, and ready for tasting

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