Cabbage

There is a smell like cabbage

Wherever I go.

Like the smell in the Boy in the Striped Pajamas.

I ask about it, and nobody seems to smell it.

Like the potatoes in the freezer,

That weren’t there,

I was told, “There is no smell.”

They are lying, of course.

Everyone smells it.

 

It was at its worse in the County Jail.

Where immigrants lined in rows of hand cuffs,

Chained together. Under Obama’s administration.

I smell it more often under Trump.

 

It smells like cabbage.

But, of course, I’m crazy.

 

If I die, I die.

If I am lobotomized, I am lobotomized.

If I have sex with a beautiful red haired woman

Every day for the rest of my life

I have sex with a beautiful red haired woman

Every day for the rest of my life.

 

Regardless, I won’t second guess myself.

I would rather Christians stop praising this.

 

Let us end it by law.

Not with guns.