She spent all evening
digging up the cruel roots
of unhappiness.

The slow cooker cooks
beef, carrots, and potatoes.
My goodness, the smells!

Hundreds of homeless
crowd the darkened median.
They stare into cars.

The bathroom walls sweat.
Thousands of tiny droplets
stand at attention.

This place is spiffy!
The last time I visited,
the paint was peeling.

The pale tablet light
renders her face so sickly
it resembles death.

The ground here is dead.
Rocks multiplied like rabbits,
supplanting the grass.

Two dollar pizza
tastes like cardboard and ketchup.
I am not surprised.

Tiny bits of brush
stick to the wall as I paint.
They aggravate me.