In the Brine (for NaPoWriMo, Day 18)

Pickles are like blazing stars,
small punches of flavor.

I don’t care whether they are
white-streaked and crisp

or yellow-green and floppy.
Both have their merits.

My mother went through a phase
of making bread-and-butter pickles

in a big Tupperware container.
I didn’t appreciate them then—

they tasted too much like cucumbers.
Cucumbers, I don’t like. Just pickles.

At McDonald’s, which I am supposed
to revile and not hold in any fondness,

my father used to pick the pickles off
his Quarter Pounder. I would put them

on my cheeseburger. Even now,
I will eye any piles of cast-off

pickles, though it’s rare that I’ll ask,
“Are you going to eat those?”

(But sometimes I will.) They are not
necessary, and yet few things seem

less optional to me
than pickles.

 

 

NaPoWriMo, Day 18 prompt: Write a poem that begins and ends with the same word.

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6 thoughts on “In the Brine (for NaPoWriMo, Day 18)

  1. Very good, me and friend go McDonald’s after our open mic night but once we were told “poets arnt supposed to eat McDonald’s” lol to guilty pleasures ;-)

    • Oh, yeah, so much “baggage” associated with McDonald’s now! Can’t help what I’m familiar with, and I can’t stand lectures like this. What are poets supposed to eat? Now, there’s a great question!

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