Pickled

I was looking for a little story I wrote about pickles. Just a memory that seemed a good thing to wander through today, but while meandering through my folders I found this poem. I think it pairs well with the Mr. Connery post, because it contradicts and heightens it. Enough said. Have a safe day. (Have we ever thought this much about Georgia and Pennsylvania and Nevada and North Carolina? Have we ever thought so much about the 235,000 plus who don’t get to ponder these numbers? Sorry, this was just a pickle post.)

         Comfort food

Every once in a while, I just want sweet pickles, buttered
crackers, potato soup. I long to fall asleep
in my grandfather’s old rocker. Slowly
pushing my foot on the ottoman as voices drift from the kitchen
mixed with baking bread and pie and the near saddle sweetness
of the leather chair. There I am small enough to slide
most of my body over the seat, pipe smoke has marinated
the afghan, my head rolls back and forth and the voices
grow more and more distant and then what I really want
happens, and my dad says Hey Turkey Lurkey,
the sky has fallen, wake up. Wake up.