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.
Marilyn Rauch Cavicchia 
Nice imagery!
Thanks, Jenn!
IMO, gherkins are *essential*.
There’s almost nothing they can’t liven up! 🙂
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!