Philadelphia Pretzel Factory

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.


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