[After Ed Galing]
The pickles lured us in, floating like an experiment
in avoiding temptation. But the pastrami’s black edges
sealed the deal for me–my mouth already sizzling
from the peppercorn crackles as my father smiled,
winking at the man I always called Ken, a nice man
with a pencil behind his ear in case a policeman needed
two sandwiches, his partner keeping the engine running
outside, outside where it seemed sunnier now that Daddy
and I had white butcher paper full of marbley bread,
jagged, fatty meat, and triangles of pickle. Strange sun,
we only went for sandwiches when it poured.
deliciously fun. man, i’d love rainy days! thanks for the verse.