Whose toy gun is this?
It sure looks realistic,
sitting in the grass.

Leftover remnants,
as in remnants of old food,
smell downright awful.

Check out this sweater.
Revel in its gaudiness.
It is a Cosby.

Surrender my blood?
Surrender it for testing?
Now I feel woozy.

Dozens of pigeons,
maybe hundreds of pigeons,
fidget above me.

The sounds of vomit,
clear and unmistakable,
pierce the quiet dawn.

Colorless peaches,
crunchy, bland, and waterlogged,
offend the palate.

Sleep, beautiful sleep,
I love you and I need you,
now more than ever.

Stacks of leftovers,
gray, deteriorating.
Will they go to waste?

A yard full of grass.
A layer of chemicals.
Brown patches persist.