The sights, the smells...what's up with that?

I wish I could remember when
We lived in simpler times.
Before the sensory overload
Inspiring these short rhymes.

As if we aren’t bombarded
With enough sights, sounds and smells,
We’re now at the evil mercy
Of jackhammers, horns and bells.

But worse to me is what I call
The “scrolling CNN.”
That text of crawling TV news
Fades off . . . then back again.

You see it at the bottom there
Displayed upon the screen.
That pesky scrolling TV news—
You know the stuff I mean.

So as you try to process
What the anchor has to say,
You’re forced by that darn scrolly thing
To tear your gaze away.

And maybe those with sharper minds
Can make sense of all that.
But I guess this right-brained simpleton
Has earned a nice dunce hat.

And lest we not omit that very
Vital sense of smell,
For all the pungent fragrances
Make me think I’m in Hell.

From all those perfume sales clerks
Who dare hold me up and spritz,
To the ones who turn their noses up…
That’s worse—drives me to fits.

And in my monthly credit bill
That’s mailed every four weeks
Is that nasty, stinky perfume strip
That provokes allergic cheeks.

And I must confess I’m choosy
About fabrics I will wear.
I love silks and cotton, Nature’s gifts.
For other’s I don’t care.

Like the boiled wools and scratchy socks
That drape my tender feet,
To the “Mr. Furley” nylon shirts
Or a slippy satin sheet.

I’ll admit to less critiquing
When it comes to sense of taste.
I prefer my salts to sugars,
Though they both go to my waist.

And the most appalling pairing is
Hot sauce . . .and 2 percent.
Never dare to cross a buffalo wing
With “moo juice” (milk, I meant.)

And the next time you’re on “overload,”
Just tuck yourself away
In a quiet, scent-free corner—
Make it dark enough to pray.

And chill there for an hour or so,
No fragrances or noise.
In a fetal curl, just meditate
On life’s abundant joys.