Far eastwards,
on the bus along the bayshore,
in the land of abandoned rust warehouses
and lonely cargo cranes,
I met a man who stank.
A strangely chocolate smell
of sweat and dust and fermented streets,
A smell of time spent parting the pedestrial rivers,
Like the prophet and savior
Of black smears under dumpsters.
He carried a stuffed black trashbag.

The moment he walked into the bus
His odor occupied our prejudices.
He sat next to me, and I hated him.
Hippocrates reminded us that air is pure,
That this man was a criminal in fouling it with his humors.
My nose, my tongue swam dizzy with thoughts of bile until--
he put his bag down,
and a few things fell out.
A twix.
A snickers.
A peanut butter cup.
"Shit," he muttered, and picked them up,
but not until I saw his bag was filled
with candy bars of every kind.
He winked at me. "Want some?"
I shook my head. "You're missing out."
He coughed,
crackling, wet,
wiping his hand on his brown bomber jacket.
I moved to a seat further away.

Two stops later he was gone, but his scent lingered.
A chocolate smell
of garbage and mystery.
Of dying phlegm
and knowing smiles.

------- Author's Notes -------

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