I remember gravel
crunching under feet,
sun beating down
a sea of heads. At a booth,
we were offered advice on cleaning
products and chamois.
We walked passed fake gardens,
pet prized-winning sheep,
soared overhead on the sky tram.
My parents bought me a pickle
from the pickle man. Large,
juicy, plump, thick, delectable...
My tiny hands wrapped around it;
my lips sucking delicious juice,
nibbling meaty flesh.
When they’d take it away,
I’d throw a fit; cry.
They should’ve known then.
© BC Jaime 2014 || IG: @B.C.Jaime
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