The Pantry

I wash my hair with oatmeal—

Dry for the oil and frequently for the smell—

The smell of mom’s pantry before I had one of my own.

My pantry smells of stale: of noxious neoprene mushrooms

Or maybe portabellas

And the oozing of sulfur—maybe egg—

That leaves me longing for the taste of shooting stars

Or even the bits of oatmeal clogging the shower drain.

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