it's not all about the money

different poverties

two scents drifting on the evening breeze


of slightly unwashed children
and their unopened homework
of menthol tobacco and cerise lipstick
the sour aftertaste of Jerry Springer
cheap soda

and supersize fries wilting in their red cardboard
of spilt gas and living-on-a-prayer motors

the scent of flowering weeds

a six-pack slap


or of boiling cabbage

that yellow smell creeping along the ceiling
up the stairwell
of frantically scrubbed hand-me-downs
of partially paid mortages
of strange animal parts
                       (those cheap cuts
                        researched nightly in cookbooks
                        and given foreign names
                        with gritted-teeth enthusiasm)
of dusty paperbacks
and rustling newspaper
the papery scent of good-for-nothing degrees

a bed-time hug


Standing in the street

I follow my nose



Poetry by Katarina Wikholm
Read 280 times
Written on 2012-03-28 at 18:47

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In this and other of your poems is a remarkable receptivity and awareness of not just what is but how the senses apprehend and respond to them, and a stunning craft for expressing it.

This a sensory delight, though not necessarily of the pleasantest senses. It's is as visual as it is olfactory, and it's sharp, poignant, pungent. Fortunately, all roads lead home, home to familiar scents, which (unlike other people's children) just smell right.