I remember his zigzag complexion
as being well traveled,
the folds of his neck
smelled like Comté cheese,
or old potted mushrooms, and
he lingered in the air long after
he’d left. A hairpin of a man,
white-gloved, cornichon fingers,
and a potato-honeyed nose that
poured in the cold clear breeze.
The man was such a stinker.
A poem mined and “found” in the Introduction of Rick Stein’s Secret France Cookbook. Based on a prompt at Miz Quickly’s Shared on Twitter #APoemADay © Misky 2021