My father changes his perfume often

The clouds

Bubbles of exotic smells

Announcing his arrival wherever he goes

He's territorial about his expensive scents

Telling us off for sneakily using too much

Taking from him feels like a sin

We do it regardless

Bathing in the mist

Walking around with our noses in the air

Till sweat wins over by evening

And we're back to earth again

My mother's fragrance is more reliable

Pond's talcum powder

Doused heavily morning and night

Routinely building up in our AC

Leaving the repairman coughing in clouds of white

It has no airs

It's easily forgotten but always there

Soaking sweat relentlessly

Neither demanding acknowledgement

Nor asking to be used carefully.