a jar of pickled beets
from the cool, dark cellar
Nora brings it up
to serve for dinner—Jim declares
war on the jar
its slippery, slimy glass,
with a bloody purple-red sheen,
twists and slips in his hands,
resisting his grip, as so many
jars before have
dabbing at his mouth
with a napkin, burping,
gladly he pronounces victory,
as he has for seventy-five years