Little Jar of Pickles

I pick up the little jar of pickles from the back of the fridge,

It has been a mainstay of the middle shelf, for sure.

Even longer than the shallots, the beetroot and the chutney,

And the numerous jars of fruit jam and more.

In fact, it may have made its way from the old fridge,

That cooled its last day at the start of the decade.

And has been solitary chilling, waiting to be chosen

Never the bride, always the bridesmaid.

The seal is still intact, and the contents still look fresh,

As I pondered if it’s time to release the contents within,

But I quickly put it back to the place where it stays,

Besides the half bottle of Gordon’s sloe gin.

There it will rest, the master of all it surveys,

Alone and cold– the condiment no one has desired.

No burger, no salad, no sandwich comes a-calling

Will these green, nobly pickles ever be required?

It seems unlikely that the seal will be broken.

And when the fridge next has a spring clean,

That lonely, little jar of unwanted, unloved pickles,

Will be discarded and finally depart the scene.