When my parents
were going out,
the house stank
of perfume and cologne,
aftershave and hairspray,
a suffocating amalgam
of indescribable smells
found nowhere
in nature,
but pleasant
somehow to my
young nose, a
festive, anticipatory
smell of dancing
and booze and
card games and
the precursor for me
to a fast food dinner,
being alone with
the babysitter,
and being able
to listen to my
Elton John records
loud on the stereo
console in the living
room, dancing around
with my tennis racket
playing lead guitar,
making rock and roll
faces in the reflection
of the picture window
of our suburban ranch.
michael jarmer 