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A Tiny, Red Hot Pepper

Hidden in the pickles,
Third jar, second shelf,
Was a tiny, red hot pepper,
In the brine, all by itself.

How he came to be there.
Nobody rightly knows.
And nobody saw him pickled,
With the cukes a year ago.

That angered the hot pepper,
To be taken from his friends.
And he vowed to make somebody pay,
He wanted his revenge.

The pungent pepper plotted,
To hide until the day,
Some unsuspecting human erred,
And ate from a pickle tray.

The zesty little veggie laughed,
Waiting for the sweet,
Who would take him from the grocery store,
Straight home, so she could eat.

It wasn't long until the time,
When Sister grabbed the jar,
And with the convent's groceries,
Was packed into the car.

The ride was quick, but bumpy,
Yet, he dreamed of all the fun,
And the rapid, rancid ranting,
That would pour out of the nun.

The pepper neared the kitchen,
But cried out at the sound,
Of shattered glass and pickle farts,
As the jar smashed on the ground!

Sister Sorrow cleaned the mess all up,
And tossed out the remains,
And swabbed the whole of the kitchen floor,
To wash away the stains.

The pepper disappeared that day.
Life can be so fickle.
Especially when you're different,
Or live with a bunch of pickles.

- Stephen Redgwell, 2016