CITY SMELLS
Dad would nudge me out of bed
(lying on broken springs)
and we'd take the old panel van
(at four in the morning)
to the Bush's warehouse.
I'd sit in the back
swaying on broken springs
as the smell of the exhaust
choked me.
I loved going there.
It was in the city
rats and drunks
fresh and dank.
I loved the carcasses.
Hundreds of them swaying in the morning breeze.
Dad would order the pick of the herd
and we would load up boxes of small body parts.
Then he'd take me to a cake shop.
We'd sit on the front seat
and chew on the soft pastry,
sticky and sweet,
the icing puffing up into my nose as trucks belched.
We'd drive back through the suburbs.
Away from the sea's cooling mist
out to the concrete heat.
On Fridays I spent the early morning
with my arms in offal.
Stirring the minced off-cuts and preservative
My hands pink and frozen.
At first I had to stop every few minutes
waiting for the blood to flow back.
Sometimes, I'd warm my hands on the old discarded fridge that smoked the hams. The charcoals glowed in the vegetable rack, the smoky cloud almost putting me back to sleep.
The sawdust soaked up the smell of meat and hid the old bits of fat. Twice a day I got to sweep the floors.
Maybe it was the smell of death.
Maybe it was the scent of where we all end up.
But I felt so alive.

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