The Stench

I blamed my river shoes,

left in the car after our trip

to the creek.

I removed them,

put them in the washing machine

sudsing in Tide, spinning the

water out, engendering clean.

I burned incense in the car--

palo santo and laurel,

to assault the funk,

whip it into fragrant

submission.

My failure rose in an

olfactory attack,

a battle born of stench

invading my nostrils,

nauseating me

with noxious fumes.

I investigated further,

found the culprit:

a forgotten half gallon

of whole milk, red capped,

from the last grocery run

didn't make it into the house

with the other purchases,

which didn't require

refrigeration.

In this godawful summer

heat, it exploded.

Sour milk crusting

the carpet in the back.

This stench will take

more than incense

to eradicate it.