The Smell of Home

There’s something intoxicating about

the scent of your own book,

Foreignly-sourced, but locally-sold,

The proof of distance traveled

By the smell, enhanced by

The flipping of pages, breathe me in–

I do, and it smells like creaky bookstore,

Like floors that groan from housing their

Wares, like classical music pouring down the

Wooden shelves of old age old town–

This town here, it’s supposed to be famous,

Because of something somebody did

One hundred years ago, more

But I say:

Let it be famous for the smell of its wares,

The kind of scent only this place can conjure,

The kind of scent that you secretly keep sniffing

Off of your jacket when you leave

Your friend’s house, and you close your eyes,

But never for the life of you

Could you ever describe it

To anyone at all.


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