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Betsy Unger

My husband has been into town.
I can smell the out of doors
in his hair, on his cheek
as he bends to embrace me in bed
where I live now rather than sleep.
George at the bookstore says hi.
The library was busy this week.
They are out of that cheese I like at the Co-op,
the one I can still eat.
I try to smell more on his body-
the scent of car fumes and tree
blossoms and warm concrete.
I try to feel the heat of the impatient
bodies pressed in line at the coffee shop,
breathe in the grounds, humid and earthy and sweet.
Tell me about the car ride, I say,
and imagine the luxury
of manufactured breeze.