Ode to the Tomato
I am loved in the raw right out of the garden,
sun-kissed or sun-dried,
or, if I’m down South and haven’t yet ripened,
battered and fried.
Kids love me made into soup,
and when I’ve become old and quite rotten,
I’m thrown at actors best forgotten.
Though I’m actually a fruit,
I identify with the vegetables—
for they let me be a part of their salad.
They accept me,
seeds and all.