The Taste of Pickled Watermelon

Ripe for pickling.

Here’s a poem from Stanzas on Oz, my third book. Some folks seem to have a taste for it.

David M. Katz

Pickled Watermelon

On Sundays he was never drunk. He shaved,
And even on the coldest day in winter
He took you down Delancey Street, a walk
You wouldn’t dare to hope for, even though
It happened every week. You jumped like a pup
When you hit the icy streets with him, and danced
Up Grand until you reached the thoroughfare.
You walked and talked: It would have been enough
Without the pickle stand. But there it was, and always
Would be: Jack Greenfield & Sons. One son, really,
Or the only one you ever saw, much bigger
Than Jack, but standing slightly back, both
Red-eared in bomber hats with the fur flaps up,
Stirring, ladling up the seeded brine
To keep the open barrels from icing
Over. The pickled peppers were an acquired
Taste, the half-sours, pickled watermelon…
You couldn’t yet accept the thought of summer
Sweetness turning sour in winter, believe
That anyone could tolerate the flavor.
You father’s eyes affirmed that it was true.
One day it just might be the taste for you.