From the Bed of a Truck

I smell my memories

and remember them with my gut

although I can never see them, they are true to me.

I smell the gasoline fuming from the red

rototiller:

bare feet, mosquitoes, kale, dusk.

I smell the campfire smoking from the lake

campground:

s'mores, swing-set, damp earth, tics.

I smell the low tide slopping back and forth, over

the dam:

fishing poles, kayaks, horses, ice cream.

I smell the lasagne noodles simmering on the

stove:

birthdays, garlic, ice cream cake, candle smoke.

I smell the heat rising from the black bed of the

truck:

gravel, Snapple, Iron Maiden, secrets.

Even if I wasn't there,

I remember my gut was always right.