ode to okra

go ahead, look for the pickled okra...

perhaps it’s on the international aisle.

no, you’re not in the south anymore

where it is always next to the pickles.

ok, I will pickle my own!

“what’s this”, the clerk asks, 

“can’t ring it up if I don’t know what it is”.

in the field, it’s cotton-picking sticky...

“you don't sound southern?”

ready to drop a rhyme I got to poke her, 

go ahead have a bite of crisp pickled okra,

wait, someone needs to write a rock opera!

off to the farmers market,

perhaps better suited for musical comedy,

there was always one disguised as Santa on our Christmas tree.

I can sell you on that slimy mucilage that thickens the gumbo. 

family fried mallow, ladyfinger of the Swahili 

or Star of David steamed, baked sweet hibiscus al dente.

never suffer succotash with pickled okra garnished spicy bloody 

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in the land of cotton bless her soul. 

there was a big ole field in my backyard...

g-d forbid I tell her I’m a member of the order of the okra!