I pick up the scent of you
sometimes
as I cross the city.
(Your prints develop in the air;
these paths are littered with negatives.)
Approaching the ferry terminus
the atmosphere yellows, thickens,
I choke.
(On the downtown bus
that seat is still warm.)
The map is dissected
by your evidences:
your transits,
assignations,
mendacities.
I catch a whiff in Symonds Street
and hurry home
to get it down
on the back of this old envelope
(before the scent goes cold).
The widow consults the mirror.