i enter a grand mosaic public building and on goes my medical face mask i join the back of the queue with my documents in one hand and my numbered butcher ticket in the other i admire the mosaics a jarring tide of art against the bureaucratic purpose of these rooms gauzed in with own product exhaust all my past is attending exhumed patted into my breath baiting remembrance with unsubtle notes for example : integrated spittings of 'drum' tobacco (i quit a decade ago) horning catches of cologne every boy used as a teen seasonal scents unweaned from deep in my system (some reigned in from the different countries i lived in or visited) then i am frisked back to infancy with breast milk and rusks it's all there a basking flippancy all there in musk about my face one fragrance after another
it's an honest relief to host an alternative to my 'old man' breath but odd and concerning something of the brain ?