SENSE OF SMELL

Briskly on this winter’s morning,
my feet barely skimming
the icy surface of the ground,
at last I reached the garage door.

The key, that tiny thin strip of metal
instantly froze my entire hand
as I stood there jiggling
to make it fit the lock.

Finally enough curse words had passed my lips
to satisfy Beelzebub’s minions.
Opening the door, I threw myself inside,
and just as quickly slammed the large door shut.

I needed a few minutes to catch my breathe,
so I leaned against the heavy door,
blew into my hands, closed my eyes
and tugged my knit hat on a little tighter.

In that blessed moment of peace,
the unique scent of old books passed by my nose.
Taken aback, I opened my eyes and saw the stacks of books
and boxes of books to which I’d become blind over time.

I remembered the spring that Uncle Walt stole my poetic ear,
the summer I journeyed by elephant on “The Road to Agra,”
the haunted fall of “The Handmaid’s Tale”
and the winter I trekked, “Thirty Leagues to Boston Town.”

Years from now, when old stories are told,
I often wonder which ones they’ll tell about me.
I’d be grateful to hear the one that ends,
“His garage smelled like a library.”