Pickle Juice

Winslow Homer, Beach Scene (ca. 1869)

A few pickles short of a jar, as a child,

like so many of my compatriots,

I picked this recipe: born to be free, peas

in a pod, all hat, no cattle, play it as it lays.

A plurality of congers calls for bouillabaisse!

Our own native table, tempting from afar,

is unimpeachable—circling no distant star

but in a parallel universe nearby,

too bad, these days, it's hardly reachable.

I've met with unexpurgated views,

but authority bans mention of intention.

We defendants live in barrels, drink

pickle juice (it's good for cramps),

wear wreaths of plaited dill.

When you crack it, the jar will spill

a quantity to which likenesses defer.

We'd like to ask why, but never will,

swearing, on our sacred honor, to endure.

This poem was written after watching Ken Burns' series "The American Revolution" and musing on its present-day outcomes.

Monday, November 24, 2025