pm poetry

A hallway that smells of plastic,
forever polymers leaping off
a tawdry carpet.
A room that smells of bulk detergent,
the soapy sweet notes
of linen closets.
A morning that smells of coffee steam,
sugared carbs,
and rushed departing.

If I could bottle it,
I’d name this scent
Vagrance–
then market it
as an aromatic experience
sold to spritz
whenever and wherever
one starts to feel
stagnant.