My grandfather broke me
Away from serialized cartoons
To bring his buddy to the pretzel factory.
It was fitted someplace in Philadelphia
But I can’t remember the location.
We got boxes and boxes
Filled with bags wrapped
For the households of our family.
Mine was the warmest.
They came straight out of the oven
And he let me eat them in the car
Where pieces of salt
Fell between cracks in the leather seats.
I’d hold his warm hand as we walked
To each house to deliver
The now cold pretzels.
I’d feel special I ate them still warm.
I forget where the factory was
But I think it’s long closed
Down so no one can longer find it.
Between salted tears
I find those walks still warm
Despite years of streets between.