Smells of Leaving

Leaving smells like mixed-up dust and dander stuck
on thin, waxy fly paper, but not like bloated Hoover bags

nor laden, feather dusters. It smells of old unopened books,
chapters unread of stories that will remain without morals told.

Smells, not of death or decaying compost, but of
neglected laundry, washed clean but left to dry sour,

creased and crushed into cheap, plastic, supermarket bags.
Like stagnant water, though more subtle, without visible green.

No floating algae could be skimmed away with small-holed nets;
the type of net that could belong to the young and naively innocent.

There will always be the naively innocent ones who will run behind
with short legs and high hopes, clutching such a net in hand;

Those young ones always dream of catching that elusive butterfly.
But, I am older now and it’s time to close the door and leave the key.