Winter is a cucumber, all ice and evergreen,
A frogskin in formaldehyde,
Cross-sectioned for slides.
What veiny depth from circle flakes is seen.

no taste.

still, though,
cool and crisp enough
to bring about a smile.

and what a relief,
what a change of pace
to write a poem
about something that don’t deserve no poetry,

for once.

i feel a little bubble of anger,
of bitterness
at the knowledge that the words come easier when my mouth is on fire.

what the hell.
for a few seconds the cool seeds slide down easy.

no taste.

(a.m.)

It was some yesterday,
sitting in my high chair
eating salted cucumber slices
a wooden one
three adjustments only
locked in
a bumble bee landed on my arm
the pain raced through my blood and brain
little pin ******
I could not get out
my memory stops there
sitting in my chair.

A child, not of speaking age, sat
   across me at tea time. The mother
fed her cake and cucumber
sandwiches, and the young girl
screeched with
                            a sour face

staring at me as if I held the solution
to erasing the taste of sweets and crunchy water.
I feigned a smile.
      It occurred to me that even as old as she was,
she had opinions on things she would forget. No one
remembers not liking cucumbers that young.