Last Call A turbulence of ripe tomatoes, crowded all against all, rot-spotted black, stakes weighted till they list like a downtown drunk when the bars have closed spheres on the ground split, vomiting pale seeds among sprawled arugula – shot rocket – oregano’s grasping tentacles, and thyme thyme and again. Bulging purple basil, bud-topped swollen with summer, races the frost that will topple it spineless, gutter-splayed.