the aroma of a roma

This morning I pulled the t-shirt off my head (most mornings, around eight, I put a t-shirt over my head) and thought to myself: It would be cool if you could text an aroma.  I wasn't thinking about the aroma of a roma, of its leaves, the pungent dark smell; I was thinking about my two-day-old crock of pickles in the basement.  I wasn't sure who'd I text an aroma to (probably not a cousin) so I opened my computer which happened also to be in my bed.  The good thing about sleeping with a computer, I thought, is that they never steal the covers.  I opened it up and facebook told me that today was the last day to call Heather Christle to hear her read a poem from her new book, The Trees, The Trees.  

Heather read me a poem about someone in a balloon, way up in the air, so high that all the people below look like placemats to him.  Or her.  For me, it was me up there, looking down on the world.  We chatted a bit and hung up the phone.  Then I started looking for Ernie, my coffee mug.  Ernie was where I left him.  Now there is coffee in him, and I cannot remember where that was.  I am completely without anything to say about romas today.  I am free today!  When I purchased these plants, I had no idea that their fruits would be so long and slender!  This photo is now about a week old.  That's the thing about tomatoes: they only get bigger.  

I also didn't know that these plants would make tomatoes with little nipples on their ends.  They are also quite fleshy.  They are mostly wall.  Not much cavity.  Speaking of cavities, have you been to the dentist lately?  You should go.  You can read magazines while you wait.  There are certain classes of magazines you never see in a dentist's office: poetry magazines come to mind.  Is this because people who care about their teeth do not care about poetry?  But do I care about poetry?  What about my teeth?  In the future, dentistry will be practiced exclusively by text message.  You will put your phone into your mouth and a dentist in Bombay will text, "drilling."  "Spit."  "Bite down."

Well, I just went outside in my boxer shorts to get a fresh photo of the romas, but a little sweat bee suckling on my zinnias bit me in the back of my left thigh, so I decided to take a picture of my zinnias instead.  They are finally blooming.  The bee who stung me is smaller than the pink bite mark on my thigh.  That means if I bit a horse, I could put a pretty good dent in him.  I should do it before my teeth fall out.