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