Smells

She smelt of sweat.
Not acrid sweat but:
Meaty, cheesy sweat.
He smelt fresh.
Bright shower, wet zeal.
Like a washing line.
She smelt of her tight black dress.
Cut as shiny close as skin on seal.
Oh and aromatherapy.
He smelt of unwashed denim.
No aftershave, no deodorant.
A little old fashioned soap.
It would tear him up to know.
She left a trail of perfume.
A tart, floral embrace.
I can smell my armpits.
They have as much appeal.
I never use deodorant.
Perfume is an expensive habit.
But it makes me feel aristocratic.