i slept in the guest room for a handful of nights last week

little Al's ears were bothering her, wanted to be near mom, so i retreated to basement guest room.

took morning whizz at 6a and upon entering the room to re-rack, was greeted with a cloud of code brown smell. "holy hell , what did I eat? must have been fartin' up a storm in here. nasssty. " cracked a window, re-racked.

kids come down at 7 to say goodbye and both give me the stink-eye: " Daaadddd" " I know, girls. your dad is a powerful man. remember that. " Quick hug, off to school.

I go to bed the next night late. Though not nearly as much, it STILL stinks in the room. Now the only minor phobia i have ( stinking ) kicks in. I start thinking that it's part of age and i ooze some funky old man juice and i've got to go to Sears in the morning and Weatherbeat myself.

i start to wonder if i will ever sleep in the same room with my wife. I sleep downstairs again the next few nights, window cracked a fist's worth.

mrs. comes down one day to my office and passes the bedroom door. "why's the door closed?"

" You know my phobia about stinking, right?"

"yeah, it's not a phobia, you're just a little sensitive about it."

"well, the room rekes like a korean elevator. i can't figure it out. it just stinks and i think it's in the sheets now. my god, it's like that henry james novel, beast in the jungle. what i've obsessed over has come back to haunt me."

mrs. walks in the room, lobs the gratuitous "smells like an old person in here" and notices a dog shit on the comforter.

"there's your beast in the jungle, henry."

There once was a barista from Seattle

whose daily grind was more akin to a battle.
But I soon found her cup of tea,
and heavens it surely pleased me,
was to ride her hard like a herd of cattle.