after all

No one is cooking fish sticks on College Avenue.
Or Gray Drive.
Or the girls hall on the 3rd floor of Philip Hawkins.
But an overwhelming stench is following me today.
It isn't from my sweat, I checked.
It isn't from my newly washed cardigan
or from my shampooed hair.
I look to your faces, those who pass me in my day.
No one will confirm the stench is real or make it go away.
You look so happy and concerned with your lives; your mothers and your bladders, the popcorn kernel stuck inside your gums from an awkward date Friday night. or was it Saturday? Either way, they didn't get your jokes. It could never work...
You don't notice the overwhelming stench that harasses me.
Maybe it isn't real. Or maybe, just like me, it follows you, and you don't want to accept that it might be real.
After all, no one is cooking fish sticks on College Avenue.