Rosy Tomato

An 88 cent bargain
netted sheen sharpie red,
foam topped
jolly giant
great vine green,
with a skinny white rope
to hang by.
Straight to the shower
your coarse red bod
buffed my
white desert span.
Back-forth brushed wet
scraping my skin
ever so kindly.
Even dry you still
carry
cocoa butter aroma
back
to warm water drops.
Drop you to find
your upside down
is right side up
You, Loofah,
Are no tomato gimmick
but a rose of
twisted tool petals
gathered to scrub
beauty
free of dead flakes.

Ode to the Pickle-in-a-Pouch

I was shitting straight vinegar
When I declared in my heavy sweaty head
Van Holten's full of it and
I'm full of you. You
Who claimed to tart and tang me.
You did. But
Don't think
I don't know your
Pickled plan of sour destruction.
Sat your lumpy keester on
a bottom convenience shelf,
Inconveniently catching dust for two
Years stewing up
A pickled pinch of
heavily salted Hulk huge revenge.
Every bite dripped with your bitter anguish.
Weighing in at a serving size of five,
You took the expiration date
To the acidic hell I
munched and crunched you into,
Etched it across my innards
And put me in my porcelain Priam privy.
It is fool's mate, Trojan pickle,
I resign.