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More poems by Theodore RoethkeTheodore Roethke | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Theodore RoethkeBooks by Theodore Roethke

Pickle Belt

Theodore Roethke

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.

Added: 16 Jan 2002 | Last Read: 12 Dec 2018 9:24 PM | Viewed: 6958 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/2494/ | Viewed on 12 December 2018.
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