A Haiku, a Limerick, and a Wonderful Smell

There's a wonderful smell abroad this morning--wonderful, but faint. In a cartoon, it would be represented as a tiny, ghostly hand beckoning under my nose: c'mere!

Feeling rather like Scooby-Doo, I follow that smell across the courtyard, only to lose it in a powerful Dumpster waft. It surfaces again as I round the corner, and holds me rapt at the intersection. I sniff eagerly, letting my eyes go all loose and slitty: mmmmmm! It's only spilled coffee, but, ah, what a blend!--something slow-brewed with spices, and maybe a warm splash of brandy. I'd swear I even smell cream. Proper cream, too, the kind that pops the lids off the milk-bottles on a cold morning. None of this non-dairy, non-fat nonsense the Starbucks crowd go in for.

I snuff up a few more whiffs. And then--why, then, that ghostly hand whooshes straight up my nose, and an unseen harpist plucks a series of ascending chords. TV flashback!

Ey, stop using all the cream! That's my mother, hovering over my shoulder with her coffee-cup. What are you doing? You've not even left room for coffee! Planning on waking up with a cup of cream, are you?

Oy! Gerroff! And that's me, fending off her plundering teaspoon. She is trying to horn in on the cream I have rightfully stolen. Leave that alone. There's plenty in the bottle for you.

That isn't cream. That's...that's thickish milk. Cough up, greedy-guts. Our teaspoons fight a duel in miniature, with hers emerging victorious. My sister, eating cereal in the background, calls me a greedy-guts, too. That's okay. I'll get her later.

Ah, weren't those the days? I mean, I can't imagine wanting to drink a cup of cream at my age, but I wouldn't mind a dollop for my cocoa. They haven't got milkmen in the city, you know. If you want milk, you've got to get it yourself. It comes in cardboard cartons, and there's never any cream on top. It's all shaken together, and it refuses to separate, no matter how cold it gets. I sniff in some more cream-coffee vapours, enjoying them while I can. I feel like licking my lips, but I'm not alone on the corner. Folks might get the wrong idea.

And then the wind picks up, and the WALK sign appears. A car nosies up to the crosswalk, leaking gasoline fumes. The wonderful smell fades away. I start thinking about tonic water instead. There's nothing much to be said for tonic water:

Come join me--the soufflé is riz
There's wine, and whatever this is:
It's sparkly and clear,
But frankly, my dear,
It's only a bottle of fizz.

Ignominious,
here lies
(beneath a thousand snowfalls)
a buried bean.