a hefty tub only lasts a weekend
in the middle of summer, scooping
savory loads of cold cut chicken
scouring for pecan and purple
grapes to complete the ritz
cracker creation. 10.99 a pound
seems ridiculous for a thing
made with such simple ingredients

though no one even orders from
the deli anymore, so i pretend 
it’s the grown-up ice cream parlor
as i watch the hair-netted lady
scoop out the chunky fresh 
afternoon delight out from 
the plexiglass and onto the 
scale, somehow a pound perfect.

i cradle my serving in the basket
nestled between cheap bread 
and fancy crackers as i can never
decide which way i’d like to devour it.