Cherry tomatoes, at least two thousand; bright fire engine red orbs scattered across the Irish green herb garden, beneath a bleak Sunday mid-afternoon sky.
As if suburbia central, which its not, the new 'neighbour' at the top of the street running into mine, has planted an old and shoddy-slender red/white/striped lighthouse, me-height, right next to his socializing area.
When I drive past I can see his varicose veins flourishing on tree stump legs; throughout the day and early evenings, I can hear him clearing his long-time smoker phlegm, there where he sits on wire mesh garden furniture next to his electrified lighthouse.
Meanwhile I procrastinate around the house in my sweaty, humid nakedness and avoid eating until the last minute.
I'm going to shower and then complete my letter to God; I desire a mountain top experience.