Saturated

The elevator is a small, humid box

holding the steam of a golden retriever

who doesn't know he's ruined my Tuesday.

The smell is thick, like wet wool

left too long in a basement.

He leaned against my leg,

a heavy, panting warmth

that left a dark smear on my knee.

The scent follows me down the hall,

clinging to the carpet,

unwilling to let the air go.