The Incense

Every time we’d go to the Renaissance Festival, I buy sticks of incense.
I close my eyes and pull out sticks at random.
One of this, one of that.
I hand them to the storekeeper, and they ask me what kind I got.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t care.”
I like to pick them out at random and light them.
I like to watch the wisp of smoke, and sense the aroma,
What is it? What will it be?
Half of the time, I have no idea what I’m burning.
But it’s nice, and I always like it.

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