Sweat and Powder

There’s this smell.
I associate it with all boys
Since Clinton used to lumber in with two
Three
Four boys from wrestling;
Their feet ensconced in rugged leather and Adidas stripes
The hungry-jack sound of their laughter sending
Ripples through my chest.

That smell, sweat and powder
It permeated my own skin
Like the tape from the wrestling mats leaving
Patterns on their knees and elbows
Cheeks and fingers.

Now, as I think of that smell, I walk into the
Dimly lit, bubble gum filled gym of our
Separate pasts and
Inhale.

The sweat and powder:
It’s not there.
But it’s close enough to smelling of him
That I forget the absence of his laughter,
Of those boys,
Of everything else but mats in a scarcely lit warehouse.