He smells like rotten seaweed,
tangled on the beach,
we always skim grey stones,
throwing twenty each.
He smells like damp brown mud,
flat beneath our tent,
rectangles on the ground,
where the night was spent.
He smells like twice worn socks,
toes sticking through the holes,
heels dug into my lap,
soup steaming in our bowls.
He smells like morning breath,
waking me from sleep,
though there are nicer smells,
these are the ones I keep.
Lauren Robertson 