You can smell it on the city’s breath

from a long way off. It hits you

the moment you fall into the valley

even though miles of hushed farmland

separate you from the nondescript 

factories where the bulbs are crushed,

chopped, mashed, or otherwise mutilated

in some fashion. My father,

lifetimes ago, emerged from buildings

like these under the shroud of night,

the smell clinging to his shirt fibers,

the cloth car seats, the lining

of rubber boots, a pungent curse

that followed him home and lingered

despite the steamy water aimed to cleanse.

I can smell it still today, when I breathe

in with eyes closed, in the night

air of the countryside, sometimes

even on my own skin. Some things stick

around. Some things don’t wash so easy.