Auto-Atavism
Canned chicken soup is the odor
my armpits exude after a workout
and the work, walk, and jump
of a full day and the expression
of self’s own sweat that brooks
no ever-damming by perfumed
deodorant that silks over hair
and hidden skin for a morning’s
worth of scent and a slew of apres-midi
hours before the patient river bursts
to release the ancient, inherited scent
that would have reared after toil
in wood, field, or mine so yokes
my self with those centuries
in effusion and flesh-empathy
even as the digits have diminished
to cold red zero on the stationary bike,
which concludes my efforts
to excel until the next twenty-four,
whose salt, water, and what-have-you
will eventually pool to flow and stain,
so always take me so far back.