The world has grinded to
a halt, and you smell of
poetry.
A child was born a year
ago, and knows nothing
of outside, to her the whole
world consists of just her mom,
dad, and those four little walls,
and yet you smell of poetry.
The world has left that man
newly widowed with no children,
his only living relative is
on the other side of the
world and they seldom
talk, but you smell of poetry.
That doctor you
once made small talk in
the elevator of your
cousin’s building, has
just pronounced her
sixtieth death this week
but she stopped counting
months ago, and you
still smell of poetry.
