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walking home from work |
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stop at the supermarket |
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the condiment aisle |
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a jar of pickles catches the eye |
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made eye contact with a solitary pickle |
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bought the jar, took it home |
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|
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then made it up the stairs |
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and made it through the doorway |
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and waded through the floor |
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tried to head in the general direction of the bathroom |
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the truest room in the whole damn house |
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|
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saying love is the answer to a question that I have forgotten |
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and I know I've been asked |
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so the answer's got to be love |
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so feeding time with tv |
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then sleeping time, not sleepy so |
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reading time with pickle |
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but where the bedside lamp had been |
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is now emanating soft soft green |
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|
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has it always been this way? |
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is it possible that all this magic went unnoticed? |
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maybe now things will start to change |
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and life will turn a better page |
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no more rage |
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|
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saying love is the answer to a question that I have forgotten |
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but I know I've been asked |
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and the answer's got to be love |
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tomorrow back to work again |
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but run to the supermarket |
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running hopeful through the aisles |
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haven't been this happy in a long time |
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but not a single jar was smiling |
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after all, |
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pickle jars are just |
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pickle jars and pickles are just pickles |
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ingredients: water, salt, cucumbers, |
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garlic, and pickling spices |
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|
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love is the answer to a question that I have forgotten |
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and I know I've been asked |
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and the answer's got to be love |
