I smell old …
I smell old . . .
the smell of the
same clothes
the same undershirt
the same underwear
the same socks
the same shirt and pants . . .
I smell old . . .
my nostrils flare
violently in disgust
blowing does not rid
me of the stench,
the bellhop
of death . . .
I smell old . . .
Is it me?
My spirit is willing
my flesh becoming
weaker by the moment
by the day
running out of years . . .
I smell old . . .
or
could it be . . .
fear reeking
the horror of
inheriting
the weakness
the spineless
the gutless swallowing
of a toxic
insanity
defecating on
the light
of hopes and dreams?
I smell old . . .
the decaying predator’s
stomach
still bilious
from the carcass
of prey
dead before its time . . .
The claws
shake
the snarled beak
quivers
but the poison
of death,
its perfume
of despair
permeates
desecrating the air.
I smell old . . .
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