It Tastes Like Progress

I remember tomatoes-
some of them lumpy-
Redly ripe, still warm from the sun.
Dirt crunching in my teeth because I managed a lick before
My mother whisked it away, into the house to wash it.
I grabbed another one and plunged my teeth into it;
The pulpy sweetness filling my mouth,
The tiny firm seeds between my teeth with the dirt;
I was eating summer.
Drizzly April day, I get tomatoes from Safeway.
Hothouse tomatoes: they’re cool and very clean,
Smooth, unblemished like Jessica’s skin after ProActiv.
The inside is pink, almost mealy;
The seeds nearly absent.
When I bite into it, it tastes like progress.