ROVER

Through the door, I can smell . . .

traces of the Chinese restaurant you went to
and the woman who . . .

the bright metallic ring, guilty on your finger,
cigarettes you’ve “given up”

traces of shitty grit your shoes picked up by the reservoir,
grass,

the faux leather interior of her Volvo
Chanel (too strong), your lovely, lovely pants

your hair, her hair, fake tan

the contents of her handbag - a crazy dizzying bazaar -

your tanned hide wallet, hot against your thigh
(and crammed inside, the plastic cards, notes, receipts)

and body fluids, body fluids,

sweat of different shades, mapping you,

mapping her desire, your key, and so much
so much more . . .

I can smell your fear