(After Brittany)
Christ, you smell.
So do I.
I’m smelling you
and, far as I can tell,
you’ve been a week away from a bath
and a few minutes short of a bathroom
really really recently.

I wish you’d get clean.
I wish I could offer you my bathroom
from which you could possibly get clean
but I live nowhere near the F line
and anyway
I can’t imagine how hard it would be
to clean the bathroom afterwards.
Plus: I don’t know you.
You could very well be the bum to rape and kill me tonight
which is not how I hoped the evening would go.

Not that I hoped
that my evening would include
the opportunity to be so olfactoriaely invaded
in this evocative way, either.
Geez,
you really do stink.
Next stop is mine
– wherever it is.