It was not the particular song,
but the music of the time,
the way the synthesized
beats carried the smooth voice,
that made a trap door in a closet
open up into the attic where I found
remnants of my time in Germany.
I caught the smell of air fresh
from the wild swing of the jet stream
down from Nordic lands even though
I just today wiped Texas sweat.
Thishappens more and more.
Just the other day, I heard a certain
kind of jazz and thought of days
when I was not old enough for school
and spent my time wiping dark
furniture with Old English Oil for
my grandmother or vacuuming the
rug for quarters. I could smell that, too.
There is a portal in my brain from
music to smell which nostalgia yanks
I am falling through to yesterday.