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.