It’s Not Poetry, It’s Acumen

I sit in a lounge chair, on my deck, in my yard.
My eyes are shut and my headphones play a soft melody.
The suns warmth travels over my feet, up my thighs,
and across my chest and face.
Only the sun is fixed and it is the movements
of the clouds that create this effect.
My eyes remain shut.
Someone is burning leaves.
Another person just mowed their lawn.
Yet another is attempting to light their barbeque.
Each shift in the breeze gives me a new scent to guess.
My neighbor’s garden has hyacinth and lilacs.
I think somebody is baking what smells like sweetbread.
Yes, sweetbread or something with raisins or dates.
I can almost write down their recipe.
I think there is cinnamon in there someplace,
but it is too faint to be sure.
There must be a public works truck on the next block
because I can smell the tar they use to repair the street.
And somebody didn’t take out their trash, I suspect.
Each essence only last but a second as the wind is not still.
But each is distinguishable from the other.
Yet wait, the air has gotten slowly heavier.
Dampening all the previously separated smells into one.
This one I am sure of,
It smells like rain.