The Closed Door, Or, A Smell That Stays

A faint whiff. Just that.

A sudden punch to the gut,

a cheap spray, a disinfectant flat,

and my resolve, it felt cut.

That underground station,

the grimy brick walls,

the specific, stale air, a sensation

that rises, then falls. No, it stalls.

In my head. Like a broken reel.

That hurried rush, the screech of train,

the way the desperation would feel,

a constant, dull, insistent pain.

I thought I'd sealed it, put it away,

that whole place, that whole time.

A closed door, locked, come what may,

but a smell, a memory, just climbs.

Right through the cracks,

right back to me.

The smell of a past I packed,

and swore I'd never see.