My hands smell of pine oil.
What a powerful soap.
It may not make me clean,
but it shot me back in time.
— a chrononaut blown out the locks
all through the residue of a cleanser.
Racked back to a mid-morning heart attack
when I was washed back in a trial by flak.
One fudged together with a pile of facts
to make quite the story.
I never read it.
but played my part.
All the pain and none of the wisdom
— just the opposite of what a reader seeks.
