Olfactory

I was clearing the shelf in the back of the hall

when I saw the blue flannel slumped near the wall.

It’s been six months since you packed up the car,

but your ghost hasn’t traveled particularly far.

I pressed the soft cotton right up to my face

and felt the whole weight of this hollowed-out place.

It’s cedarwood shavings and cheap, rolling smoke,

a scent like a secret or a very old joke.

It isn't a memory, it’s a physical blow,

the kind of a thing that won't let a man go.

I put it back down on the floor in the dirt

because I’m not ready to wash out the hurt.