I never liked the smell of mint
when I was only four.
That bush by the back door
burst through the railings each year
The path was wide enough
when I think back
But not then.
I would hug the wall on tippytoes
arching my back like a concave mirror,
dreading the lightest brush with death
which would follow that dreaded scent.
One day, after a downpour, the damp-
ness amplified this poisonous perfume.
The summer sun seemed focused
on that path, the roots, those leaves.
I caught the whiff which burned the hairs
that lined my fragile throat.
So to all you culinary celebrities
using mint in that'n this.
I urge you, to forget it, please,
It reminds me of warm cat piss.