Hello, stress pickles.

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Show me your pickles; I show you the door.
Stencil some ivy. I dare you: once more.
Something domestic, your dear charming mess;
I’m not being charming. These pickles are stress.
I’m not in a farmhouse, en-aproned, be-scarved;
I’m not making dinner. My husband is starved.
I’m cutting up rinds with a wild, twitchy eye,
Precisely, too slowly, too busy to cry.
Controlling a melon, that’s all I can take;
It’s processed and eaten. Now what shall I make?
Ah pickles from rinds! I’ve heard that’s a thing!
I’ll put off tomorrow till Fall, maybe Spring.
I’m stuffing my fear in this quaint mason jar,
Aware that it looks like smug calm from afar.
Don’t hate me. I can’t face the world. This is it:
I’ll fill up today with sweet pickles and stuff.