July 18: Another Skunk Poem, Meetings, Paranoia

I have been paranoid all day long.  I had to go home, change my clothes, throw out my trusty book bag, buy a new pair of shoes, and douse myself with cologne.  And I still think I stink.  Say that three times really fast.

Do I stink?

Tonight, I have meetings at church.  I'm hoping when I go home to change my clothes that the skunk scent will have dissipated quite a bit from this morning.  But it is once again in the 90s, with no air movement and about 100% humidity.  I think my house is going to reek.

I have a new poem.  It's another skunk poem, appropriately titled, "Another Skunk Poem."  You'll remember, a few weeks ago, I wrote a poem about a skunk.  This poem is like a sequel.  It calls to mind the World War I poem "In Flanders Fields" by John McCrae.  I feel like I'm in a war with this little shit of a skunk.  Now that I have sighted the enemy, I have a physical image to heap my hatred upon.  If that sounds a little too dramatic, you haven't smelled my front porch.  Or my book bag.  Or my shoes.

I have seen the enemy...

Saint Marty is ready to declare war.

Another Skunk Poem

The pen I write with,

The journal I write in,

The paper I write on,

All smell of the battle, strong

As garlic and onion fried

In a skillet, served hot,

Full of steam that burns

Eyes, sits in the folds

Of shirt and pants, like seeds

Planted in midnight dirt,

Ready to sprout under August

Sun and heat into thistle, thorn,

Something that bites fingertip,

Draws blood to the surface,

Reminds me of my encounter

With the pungent warrior,

A creature fast as shadow,

Gone before I had a chance

To curse black-and-white

Hunger, its mustard gas

In my nose and lungs,

My home, to which I'll return

This evening, walk, room by room,

Find traces of the enemy

Still present in the poppies

Of wife, son, daughter,

Kitchen, couch, bed, quilt.

In this Flanders field, I am the intruder,

Skunk still rules the night.