The smell of flowers

I missed the smell of flowers on my ride
to work today. Maybe rain dampened them,
like fingers on guitar strings, or maybe
I was busy smelling somewhere else. Where,
I don’t remember. I projected past
the city, past its stench, inward, to some
forgotten zone, fresh-dank with must.
Tomorrow, I’ll smell flowers again, I’m
sure, so I’m not worried. It’s just —
I missed what might’ve not been there today.