BOB HICOK, “A LITTLE MUSTARD, SIDE OF PICKLE”

[haybalemaze]

Who am I to be the one you love? 
Shouldn’t I want you to have better? Taller 
and more hook-shot capable? A man with a bigger wad 
of cash? But I’ll make you a turkey sandwich 
anyway. Not the best in the world, but the best 
on this day on this plate. And kiss you 
before and after. These are the practice oaths. 
The small bonds that carry us like boats 
until we arrive at this – I promise to love 
your cancer or the way you’ll think 
in twenty thirty it’s nineteen eighty six. Year 
we met. Year I broke my foot. Year I tried 
gymnastics in a cast. Of all the broken-footed 
first-time tumblers, I was the best at being 
worst. Promise to be a savant at stay. At pulling 
the plug when you would have it yanked. No mere 
head of lettuce, you. No slug. And very, 
so very best at not wanting to live a day 
without you. Decades ago, I turned pro at that.