We are strangers so many of our lives,
   the ones we live at work, at home, on the road between,
   and when we stop and smell the roses.
   We are strangers to each other and to our selves.

   The roses smell fresh and each one worth its time,
   the scent blasted out of your nose by the whine of cars,

   the idiot standing on the side of the road whom you narrowly avoid,
   on your important way to home, so you won't be late,

   for your lover, you're standing behind the candles and white linen,
   you clutch the roses in your hand from the roadside on the way to work

   where your important business made you yell
   at your more important lover,

   and now you have to wonder why you did it;
   it doesn't feel like you at all, and these candles feel strange,

   and you smell the roses that you're holding,
   and wait anticipating as you hear the car pull in   

   that has just narrowly avoided the idiot who swerved
   to avoid the idiot smelling the roses on the side of the street,

   and altogether pissed at this person, at this person that you don't know
   who wears your name at work and drives the car that sits in your driveway,
   and has the title to your home,

   where you're standing and waiting for your lover.