The little green torpedo
still hangs on a gnarly vine,
probably past its prime,
but I can’t persuade myself
to cut the cord and bring it
inside.

The cukes and tomatoes
have given me such a lift
on summer’s hottest days—
baskers, they are, lolling
in the patch by the garage
under so much sun.

The piece of me unwilling
to let go of the still-persistent
warmth hopes that the cute
green globes hanging like earrings
from Juliet the tomato plant’s leafy ears
might redden, allowing one last taste
of summer in a tomato/cuke/feta salad.

Just look at them in their natural
state—that hardy little cuke
and giddy tomatoes yahooing it up
like teenagers at the pool
on a sizzling day.

“The party’s not over,” the kids insist,
spreading their towels to lie face up,
eager to soak up every last ray
that shines down on their
perennially golden selves.