I have a pickle. It’s not an ordinary pickle. Yes, it’s long and hard. Of course, it’s bumpy and green. But, my pickle smells funky, like a skunk dancing with a flower in the rain. Cradled in the palm if my left hand, a pointer-push to gently plug the tip’s hole…empty, the shaft waits…Until, from a right-hand flicker, the flame ignites, and I suck a mouthful of a gracious spirit through my pickle, filling my soul to maintain a smile, alone with my Sunday friend, the only one who always leaves me satisfied in the end.