Poetic Earth

It smells like panic
before it smells like smoke.

A ghost of engine exhaust
slips through the cracked window
and my heart bolts.

I am already counting
what we don’t have.

For one sharp breath
I am certain
the week has collapsed.

Then the car in front of me moves on.
The smell lifts
and my chest loosens.

Two propane tanks
clank together
as they’re hauled up the driveway.

A week of clean dishes.
Steam on skin
and hair rinsed of worry.

A thousand scents.
A thousand moments.

The ache of a jacket
whose buttons still snap
after too many winters.

As if the warmth is borrowed
and returned carefully.

It smells like relief
that doesn’t last long,
but lasts long enough.

The scent of poverty
is knowing exactly what you would miss
the moment it disappears.