Aroma
Pepé Le Pew was a
helpless fool whenever he caught
wind of the ribbonous
scent of parfum that trailed her
through the pitching
streets of Montmartre, surely the most
hapless feline this
side of the Champs Elysées, always
slinking under freshly
painted ladders not to mention habitual
dousing with some
mademoiselle or another’s eau de cologne.
Reeled in on smoky
tendrils, hooked through the wings of the nose, years
melt away with memories
of baking bread or stalls on rainy mornings or
dissipating cordite. Only yesterday the heady aroma of Old Spice
mixed with gasoline made
me pause to listen for your tuneless humming.
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