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

home