Material

I know when I stumble upon 
the perfect material for a poem. 
As if among hundred shells a child finds 
the perfect one, cleans the sand off
Takes it home without waiting 
expectantly at the sea 
which mostly froths useless things. 
I know it when I stumble upon 
a reality that comes in the right size and 
texture of a backyard tomato 
and can be served up in sachets 
of ketchup to all those willing in a hurry.
Only its expiry date is in fine print.