If I had conjured all images
of bumpy, green cucumbers
drowned in briny baths
waiting languidly in potbellied
barrels on the mercantile counter,
I may have written a poem about
a pickle that you may have known–
not, however, the pickle that now
faces me.
This particular pickle found
its way into my stomach
when I opened my big mouth
and bit down hard on something
that was deceptively palatable
but decidedly distasteful–
as salty as an old dog,
his tail wagging to the beat
of “Oh, Waly, Waly, Gin Love be Bonny.”
Word Play 