the bag of tomatoes

at ninety one
he shuffles from bed to chair,
to porch.
his tomatoes and peppers,
are doing well
in his small garden
beside the air conditioner
and concrete patio,
they grow with little
help except by the rain,
and sun.
he'll pick them and place
them in a paper
bag when I arrive, take some
home he'll say,
as he says at the end
of every visit,
for years.
then he'll stand there and wave
until i'm out of sight,
driving off, him still
at the door,
with tears in his soft
blue eyes.