The story starts with a falling pickle

coated in grim dirt,
dropped in a memory of my youth,
brushed clean (almost) by my thumb
it was fall,
from the wax paper bag
to poor moist ground,
it had rained,
and tho fog overcast and gray now,
I could see my house,
across the long football field of years,
the backs of one of many rowhomes,
flat and straight-bricked,
this one with a semblance of a deck
yet to be built,
on the green fence around the
small rectangular yeard, an orange mass,
a dangling tail,
an impatient scowl,
I slip through the same hole
in the same cyclone fence
that I slipped through every day
pulling my school bag through
behind, and
followed by cat paws up the
back stair I drew the sliding glass door,
inside at the kitchen table
I unzipped my bag,
the smell of vinegar and earth
and ink and paper,
the Amazing Spider-Man
and my afternoon snack.