It’s not the oddly pleasing scent
of far off skunk on a summer night,
or the promising waft of rich black dirt.
It’s a more halting, acrid odor,
one that fills my head and lingers,
and then it all comes back to me;
that one grade school summer
when a pungent smell filled my bedroom.
My mom and I looked everywhere
but we couldn’t find the source.
We left the windows open,
I slept with my nose in my pillow.
Then one day I was looking for a toy
and a bright blue box caught my eye.
I opened the lid and uncovered the culprit;
you see, I was raised back in the days
when Mr. Potato Head only came with plastic parts
and you had to provide your own real potato.
(c) 2007 Marissa Dodge