The City Smells of Burning Cornflakes

The City smelled of burning cornflakes.
Every morning I woke, opened my door to fetch my paper in gastric peace.
As days press on, turned to months, years, decades, nausea shifts to comfort.
A familiar sour-sweet smell of coffee,
mixed with menthol cigarettes,
A matriarchal breath.
I no longer sniff a stench,
while away that pungent odor escaped my memory.
Upon my return the gaseous cloud welcomed me,
Enveloped me.
I know now that I am home.



Here is some 'found' poetry....

Illinois Gals
There are plenty of Photo-ops,
Illinois girls unite!
Mills observes, often ends in court.
We caroled.

Traveling
Mile loop to Serengeti.
Of that was on "one and a half lane"
dust-not mud,
Reminders of British Country.
Auto's driven on the left.