the problem with this picture

A valley town can't hide its cemetary
nor a hamlet its whore
any more than a faltering prophet his fears...

"It smells like a family lives here," he said
as we marched up the stairs--
him to the shitter and me to the fridge.
I knew what he meant, had thought
the same myself seconds sooner.
The combination of his proclamation
and the motherly centerpiece on the pristine
dining room table made me feel bad
for heading to the kitchen for ice
to put in my fourth cocktail of the night.
But hey, the song was not going
to write itself, and someone had to melt.

...And maybe mine is that wherever
I wind up planting my roots
will never achieve that precious scent
unable to be faked, made only by years
of sacrifice and mingling bodies loving
unconditionally, as only they know how.