Massaging the green
carpet of a prized front lawn
takes priority.

Why is now the time
every last thing must be done?
To satisfy haste?

As the day lingers,
cold salad and hot pizza
sadly exchange temps.

Dancing or groping?
The hands of a lone bopper
cannot distinguish.

Good luck to the burnt
grass singed yellow by the sun.
Please drink some water.

Four-hundred degrees
burn this butter to a crisp
brown deliciousness.

Relax and take it.
Seven days of medicine.
We can get through this.

Tiny frosted bulbs
light the unfinished bathroom,
revealing new tasks.

Smells accumulate
across days of hard labor
back to back to back.

If you do not eat
this enormous green salad,
it will go to waste.