Pickle Belt Poem by Theodore Roethke
Pickle Belt
Rating: ★3.3
The fruit rolled by all day.
They prayed the cogs would creep;
They thought about Saturday pay,
And Sunday sleep.
Whatever he smelled was good:
The fruit and flesh smells mixed.
There beside him she stood,--
And he, perplexed;
He, in his shrunken britches,
Eyes rimmed with pickle dust,
Prickling with all the itches
Of sixteen-year-old lust.
Friday, January 3, 2003
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4/16/2024 10:31:05 AM # 1.0.0.1119
