Thursday, October 8, 2009
Ode to A Weekend
Morning. A fine, terrific brew would often smell nice, especially coffee to a bored weekender, specifically flavored to go well with scrambled eggs. But this one, rising to the seventh step of the ladder, was a witch's brew.
Had septic odor, urine smell, clay smell, rust smell, bunker oil smell, in it, among others, and at church last Sunday, seven days after the rushing flood, the pews still smelled of shit. Small mall of liquid shopping, I remember now, the jasmine scent of detergent powder clashing with what came on like fresh saliva (someone else's) on a bus curtain. Not exactly Neruda's poem on the smell of cordwood, nor a tiny gust from the champagne striking a new ship.
Ugh, she said. Need to write a poem about that visceral smell. And so I, vituperating no one, vaunted an attempt, my poet's nose in the air, stepping down my tower as if it existed. Holler if you need anything, she said, running to the third floor to breathe.
Finally, I scoop the floating pan for this morning's egg-frying, washed it and my hands and feet with soap by the container of water on the seventh step fetched from the second-floor bath. Before this flash of a flood, I was to write an ode to the sunnyside-up and the aroma of coffee.
Morning. A nice, terrific brew would often smell fine, especially coffee to a bored weekender.