A pickle is a swordfight,
blades clashing, up and over,
a twist flick then the foil flies
out the hand; wolf whistle
at the better opponent,
“Cardinal Richilieu,
nice pair of tights monsieur!”
Erm, hasty retreat.
A pickle is the chicken
roasted upside down,
dissintegrates
when served at the family meal,
“Nowt on this bird and it’s
hollow inside too” grumbles gran;
multiplying two legs into six
is quite a tricky feat.
Still, the soup was souper.
A pickle is wearing
your brand new wristwatch
while swimming, arm a little heavy
with the thought
it isn’t completely waterproof;
I once did this and it wasn’t.
Never swam to shore so quick.
A pickle is most of all,
a vegetable in a dilemma,
but who’s to say it’s not laughing
at the misfortune of frozen peas,
they’re pods in a ponder.
I wonder.
