Oh the smell from long ago
The waft warm and familiar
The early start a slave in part
In a world confused and in pain
Why do passing smells entice
More than if I was the chef
With my own hands creating
But my nose elating
From the aroma of the morning tube
Category: Inner City
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A man of five foot ten
Olive green head to toe
Akin to a backpacker
Of a snowy mountain or so
A face shifty and in flight
He darted through the dark night
Weaving through the streets
With a handbag studded cream
Rummaging in the alley
Walking really fast
God is watching him
Karma’ll glaze her rath
Sweep over this shadow
Who somehow lost his way
I prey he finds the light
And the girl is ok
Sin Agua Poetry Blog 