It smells like someone just did a big load of laundry. Down at the stockyards, next to the pulp plant. Like Yogi Berra’s been eating beans. But I’ve been fooled before. When the fruit man had a finger on the scale. When the stories of the supreme being didn’t bear scrutiny. When patriotism was a play. When the time came to unearth my mother’s breasts. And to play ball like my father. Hollowed be thy name among men.