Pickled moon.

Front step house with pickled cucumber and moon. Moon full or near it and pickle half sour too large hollow middle. I put the moon in the little hollow of the pickle. Like the thumbnail. Green at edges. Neighbors talking socialism and needs of the world "not jazz"... "light a fire". Thurber's princess took the moon on a chain.  I'm mulling a post. Fountains, connectedness, memory, impermanence, joy. The usual themes. Streetlight dims the moon, there's a thought in there: the bright and beautiful  dimmed behind the glaring glow. Thurber and Baum wrote tales of the moon. Dahl too, and Dodgeson. Pickle almost gone. Who writes tales of the pickle jar? Think of it, cucumbers bobbing in barrel brine, the splash bringing one out with tongs. Maybe a  clear plastic lid to lift, the lid and barrel moon-round... Salt-acid smell. Juice dripping. Crunch. Plenty of story to tell. A pickle bought as a treat. Dropped. Moon sinking past rooftops. Neighbors behind doors. Love departed. Four air conditioners hum their barbershop. "Childhood lost. New green promise. Seeds. Tomorrow. And tomorrow and. The readiness is. Wait.