Something in the kitchen is dying,
or some floral freak just outside the open kitchen window
is exploding with that fragrance that is
so often confused with
a putrefaction theme.
Gosh, the sweetly stink is overpowering.
It’s either the rotting clockworks
of a buffalo’s open,
savaged trunk in the third
day of full sun, or an impossibly delicate little
blossom or tendril,
waving its pheremones around
and hoping for the best.
While trying to
extricate the turkey dogs from their
slimed little space-age baggie,
my hand is bathed
in the unidentifiable
charnel house fluid
that pools in the plastic wrapping
like something essential.
Ah! Sweet abattoir that is life!
Thank Goodness for French.