Couched potatoed I watch
Nigella Lawson mix up
moist chocolate cupcakes
and the smell wafts
through the flatscreen
landing softly in my olfactory
factory.

Whiff of wattle flowers
transports me back in time
to where my brown school shoes
clipped to class under
the watchful shelter
of a yellow canopy
and the water fountain
bubbled a simple tune.

Freshly cut grass
oozes aromatherapy
on the weekend
enchanting our souls.
It’s a scientific fact
the smell of cut grass
makes you feel good.
Here’s to Victor Mowers.

I can conjure your aftershave,
think it was called
sweat and sadism,
which I haven’t come
across in twenty years.
You smelt that good.

When people talk about
the big flood of 1974
I can smell the rotting stink of mud
ripping houses and marriages apart
and sticking on walls for decades.
Things take a long time to dry out.

Then there is the smell of hospitals
which
pretty pictures
on the walls fail to cover
and bouquets of flowers
and baskets of fresh oranges
cannot mask
no matter how much we wish
they did.

When I look into your eyes
I smell fear.
You may smell anger
in my pheromones.

Can you smell things on the TV?