The clusters silenced and turned
toward the makeshift podium
as the youthful male in layered
white robes coughed dryly.
“It has been decreed that we,
as individuals, have the liberty
to choose to be any type of pickle
that we wish, dill or sweet.”
After a brief moment of contemplative
silence, a favored audible
reaction spread in waves pulling
bystanders into its depths.
The old, heavy woman parted
a temporary path to the platform,
then proceeded to nudge the site’s
predecessor from the creaking, old boards.
She scanned the crowd with her non-twitching
eye. “Do you not realize that if
we were truly free, we would have
the opportunity to stay a cucumber?”
[Check out other original poems here.]