Enamel

It’s not pine. It’s not even clean.

It’s the smell of the super painting

the radiator in 4B, the heat

hitting the fresh enamel and

turning it into a thick, sweet ghost.

It’s 1995. No, earlier.

It’s the smell of being small enough

to fit behind the sofa while the rain hits.

I walked past a pile of slush

on the linoleum, gray and melting

into the shape of a flattened pigeon.

My stomach turned. It’s a smell

that doesn't have a name yet,

just a feeling of being very far

from wherever I’m supposed to go.