Olfactory 

An old spice and memories play 
on a rainy day in the market.
It has been some decades 
since I felt my way through 
the rugged walls of childhood 
and led my blind self to the basement. 

An empty bottle of my father’s aftershave, 
mother’s laundered linen, 
the leather we lost our virginities to again, 
again, and again, the mossy stone you fell from 
and flared into a rare hibiscus, 
everything waits in the cool. 

An old spice I cannot quite name yet 
sheathes me. My sharp words mellow 
as I bargain with the fishmonger and ask 
for nineteen ninety. The fishmonger 
debones a promise. My umbrella is still wet. 
The dog inhaling my shoes and 
the open part of the socks has a pet name, 
‘Afternoon.’

.