From "Cherry Tomatoes"

Little bastards of vine.

Little demons by the pint.

Red eggs that never hatch,

just collapse and rot. When

my mom told me to gather

their grubby bodies

into my skirt, I'd cry. You 

and your father, she'd chide--

the way, each time I kicked 

and wailed against sailing, 

my dad shook his head, said

You and your mother.