Fumes vs. Funk

They handed me the keys,

a phantom scent attacked.

That plastic, chemical sting,

a promise, perfectly packed.

It smells of what’s not happened,

of seats still crisp and new.

A manufactured cleanness,

nothing real shines through.

My own car smells of coffee,

of old gym socks, of rain.

The honest funk of living,

a familiar, worn-out stain.

This newness feels too sharp,

like a blade without a home.

I’ll take the lived-in odor,

the scent of coming home.