The Wrong Kind Of Salt

[Verse 1]
Hey, it's me. This old Morton's canister is sweating on the counter.
It's a quarter past three, and I'm a ghost in my own kitchen, a bad counter-
feiter. I've got the cucumbers sliced thin as a new regret,
The vinegar's sharp enough to burn a silhouette.

[Chorus]
But this is the wrong kind of salt, the wrong kind of rain.
A cheap imitation of a feeling I can't name.
It's a language my hands just weren't built to understand.

[Verse 2]
I can see her in this room, wiping her hands on her apron front.
The sun through the persimmon leaves did this little dance, this little stunt.
She never measured, just a flick of the wrist from a blue ceramic bowl.
"Shio-kagen," she'd say, "that's the soul."

[Chorus]
And this is the wrong kind of salt, the wrong kind of rain.
A cheap imitation of a feeling I can't name.
It's a language my hands just weren't built to understand.

[Bridge]
Maybe the secret ingredient was the dust from Manzanar.
Or the patience you learn behind a fence and a wire.
It's not a recipe they passed down, it's the scar.

[Chorus]
Yeah, this is the wrong kind of salt, the wrong kind of rain.
But I'm starting to think that's a beautiful thing, the strain.
Of a language my hands will just never understand.

[Outro]
Anyway... I'll let you go. The light's coming up.