Farmers Market

Today I asked the market a question about love.

The cow farmer says you can love with intention to kill,

That there is no paradox between love and death.

The flower woman says love is moving your body.

It makes you feel like you are moving forward,

Though you are and always will be the same.

The tatooed woman on the bench says

Love is never dependent on what one says, not even

What one does, for if you love him then you love him.

What is love? Well, it’s a hard question,

Says the maple-syrup man. It’s hard to pinpoint

A single origin but love is like old clothes,

Something you’ve worn for a long time,

The experiences usually get old but

You cannot bear to throw them away.

The girl in black says she will never find

Familial love, for she says mothers always

Take away their children’s independence

To cure their own abandonment. And finally

There is the lazy man sprawled across a picnic blanket,

Refusing to answer my question on love and telling me

To come back later because he is chomping his way

Through a sandwich, and I guess that for him

Love means no more than a pulled-pork sandwich.