Delicata

Oh you romancers,
I can count on in a clutch
even without a mound you don’t
let me down, you girls,
your round bottoms won’t arrive
for at least another month
organized, by the numbers.

The capricious eggplant,
exotic in its shoulder holds purple
and petulant with the weather,
the long drive, the stinky tin can
so close to its noses.
They have no try in them.

But you will repose, rewarded
for your stoic business plan
for months in the dining room,
and jazz.