Pick Your Own
by Christine Jackson
Cold rain today, Thanksgiving.
Nobody is coming, thank God.
The big table is empty even of
Aunt Ruth’s ginormous
Dutch apple cheesecake.
She used to set it
smack on that corner
in front of the fridge.
Now I’m looking
at the herd of sea lions
postcard the kids sent last summer.
Fisherman’s Wharf. They picked apples
too. We didn’t get to the orchards this year.
Last time on the way to pick your own,
we drove too fast by the church crosswalk
and a cop siren chirped once,
“whoop,” and I had to laugh.
Sounded like somebody
flipped up the skirt
of the minister’s wife–
or something.
Cold rain makes today feel like Sunday.
About the POet
Christine Jackson is retired and still recovering from her day job as a professor of literature and creative writing at a South Florida university. She continues to clock in on a life-long night shift writing poetry. Her work has appeared in an array of journals, including Anti-Heroin Chic, Eunoia Review, New Verse News, Verse-Virtual, and Woodside Review.