I find that there is something intoxicating about the aroma of poverty.
A quality that hangs in the air after one's departure.
It is not a fetid odor or stench but rather a baked in smell that
brings to mind pots and pans caked with grease, a baked in aroma
that carries with it the living room, the playstation console and
unlit tobacco smoke.
The air of the people whom we call the poor is rich with the
intoxicating flavors of life that covers us like a collective cloak
of invisibility that hides our shame while we aimlessly,
endlessly search for that possession last seen only in a dream
that always vanishes upon waking.