SNIFFER

I'm a sniffer. I sniff magazines,
new and ancient books.
Old wood inside of bureau drawers,
concoctions made by cooks.

I pull clean sheets right off the line
and press them to my nose.
I go through stores and sniff my way
down isles of brand new clothes.

I walk the driveway sniffing mail
and newsprint on the paper.
The black that ends up on my face
must look quite odd to neighbors.

This whole thing started long ago
when I was five years old.
I was either very stupid,
or either very bold.

I sat inside our big black car
and pushed the lighter in.
It popped out bright and red and hot
and tempted me no end.

I had to sniff, I had to know
just how the metal smelled.
I pressed the coils into my nose
then screamed like loosened hell.

"How'd you get that big brown scab
in the middle of your nose?
Hey, Janet, what did you do to yourself?
It's as big as a bloody rose!"

I never told, I never talked
about my deep seeded desires.
You'd think I'd have stopped the sniffing thing
when I almost caught on fire.

But I can't stop, I cannot end
what plagues me to this day.
Scented candles, grass and fish
and rain and ocean spray.

Moldy gear from camping trips,
wood smoke and leather belts.
Old straw hats, soap and dirt,
Turpentine and kelp.

When I die, just lay me out.
No need for rouge or curls.
Place a magazine across my face
and I'll sniff right out of this world.

Janet Brice Parker