What is that smell called? – I asked –
rain on dirty asphalt –
the steam rising with a scent
pronounced and like no other.
We ran to the shops, pelted
with raindrops the size of buckshot.
‘Petrichor’, he said
and I shook my head –
No, that is the rain on the dirt.
This is the smell of soldiers going to war
and their mothers’ heartbreak.
‘Why’, he asked, ‘do you have to do that?’
What? I eyed the shop shelves – and my list.
‘Make me feel this ache?’
He paused, pound of bacon in his hand
in my peripheral.
I didn’t start the war – I said
picking up a can of coffee, and
putting it into our cart.
Pleasant Street is a mother, baker, and poet. She has been writing poetry since fourth grade. Now she is writing a series of neo-noir thrillers and a collection of short stories. She thinks too hard and feels too deeply, and appears to be stuck in 1948. She is still dreaming up a way to use baked goods as legal tender.