obsession poems

Neither a foul nor friendly smell, but odd,
Unfamiliar, both intriguing and heightening
her anxiety that perhaps this was something she created.
The rotting oranges in the bottom of the fruit basket,
the mildewed towels scattered on the floor?
The rusty pipes, or the neglected cat’s litter box,
The weight of accumulating waste,
its lingering odor seeping into the walls,
finally dusting on the seams of
her fine hairs under the chin,
in the delicate creases
of her knuckles disturbing
the core of cleanliness
she so earnestly strived for.