I pray thee, good sir
What is that odd smell?
It’s of dinner leftovers, but now?
It’s just short of nine, and cereal’s just fine
So why’s this smell coming out of your pits?
Oh you, little man
What do you do there
With your nose plugged under my arm?
Get your nose out from there, for then you won’t care
What it is that I ate just this morn.
Eat, did you say?
For it seems that you’re bathed
In the smell of reheated Chinese
Your coat sends it out, ever-expanding the clout
Of this smell on my morning commute.
All yours is this ride?
We’re all off to work
On this crowded wheeled box called a train!
Whether morning or night, the time’s always right
For dinner as breakfast instead.