THE SMELL OF SKIN
My own, bread—deep in the loaf—
Or orange, after peel and misty spray.
Once, cotton candy—someone else—
Hair sticky, frizzed, a sweet place to be.
And another, onion turn up—a garlic tongue—
A taking not for me, like lunch under microscope.
The worst, a sickening choker—coupon common—
Overhanging dirt-for-days, where the dogs lie round.
The best, an unknown fresh—the kind you try to revive—
Of which the sweet everlasting, doesn’t ever belong to you.