Fried Pickles

fried pickle Wednesday night

and the native child plays

peek-a-boo from

half-a-first-down away

and not Koch, not Goldsmith,

not Rexroth, not Fearing,

remarks on how the

fried pickle slices

taste like something

before teen spirit came along

and not his mistress,

not his one-night stand,

not his long-term friend

with benefits says she

had better when the

legs of an amphibian

were toasted with

butter and olive oil

but the five-dollar shakes

and the heaping bowls of

lumpy yellow soup are

worth the price of

admission alone

and three hours pay later,

the three family members were sated

sated and happy

because life was good,

the emergency fund was there,

the accounts for retirement

were being funded somewhat,

the weight was being lessened,

the child functioned well above

expectations,

what else was there?

what else was there to

groan and gripe about?

nothing really,

by rights,

they are middle-class,

first-world success stories

or so one would think?

the fried pickles say otherwise