Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend
Called Felicity

During that summer
When unicorns were still possible;
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned;
When shiny horse chestnuts€¨Â*Â*Â*Â*
(Hollowed out€¨Â*Â*Â*Â*Fitted with straws€¨Â*Â*Â*Â*Crammed with tobacco
Â*Â*Â*Â*Stolen from butts€¨Â*Â*Â*Â*In family ashtrays)€¨Were puffed in green
lizard silence۬While straddling thick branches۬Far above and away۬From
the softening effects۬Of civilization;
During that summer--۬Which may never have been at all;۬But which has
become more real۬Than the one that was--۬Watermelons ruled.
Thick imperial slices ۬Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins;۬Leaving the best part,۬The black bullet seeds,
To be spit out in rapid fire۬Against the wall۬Against the wind۬Against
each other;
And when the ammunition was spent,۬There was always another bite:۬It
was a summer of limitless bites,۬Of hungers quickly felt ۬And quickly
forgotten۬With the next careless gorging.
The bites are fewer now.۬Each one is savored lingeringly,۬Swallowed
reluctantly.
But in a jar put up by Felicity,۬The summer which maybe never was۬Has
been captured and preserved.۬And when we unscrew the lid۬And slice off
a piece۬And let it linger on our tongue:۬Unicorns become possible
again.
John Tobias