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Poetry in Motion

I live in a nice building, I think. There's a good mix of young and old, all appear gainfully employed. There is also this contingency of 20-something guys who are generally doing at least one of the following: coming back from the gym, coming back from a beer/pizza run, coming back from a smoke, coming back from a bar, or coming home from a hookup.

I've decided to chronicle my most recent NYC encounter with a poem. I call this one, "Stinkies."

I stepped in the elevator this morning
and got trapped inside without any warning,
as if my feet were shackled to the ground
by a stink, coming from all around.
Should I turn to my left,
as a man's booze stunk like breath?
Or turn to my right,
I see someone who did not shower last night!
It made my straight hair curl and my sunglasses melt.
Why, oh why, did I smell what I smelt?

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