Sonia, my sauerkraut maiden, hates me.

What must I have said, I can’t imagine.

I shop the market every Saturday–

she treats me like a head of bad cabbage.

Sonia, oh Sonia, the garden, your booth!

My, how you’ve ripened! But you’re too fickle,

for a foolish man fermented in truth–

to pluck your pumpkin or bite your pickles.

Yet, such a flirt, why won’t you wink at me? 

Me, who has a cabinet full of kraut,

in spite your brazen personality.

But enough, enough, what is this about?

Sonia, my Sonia, where is your mother?

If I weren’t so old, I swear, I’d tell her.

****

Categories: Poetry, Selection: 2016- 2017