Grey Times In the Burbs

A paltry morning, bare of leaf, grey as a goose. Hours puddle between the shallow bones of a decaying season. Just enough gas to get me there The nozzle gulps as if it were drinking not pumping. I ponder on the fact that all gas stations in Ohio are built inside a wind-tunnel. The boxed donuts are an impulsive afterthought. I scold myself… am I that that grey that I must eat grey food? Nevertheless, I take it home as if it were newly dead, and not manufactured, molded from goo and dust. On the way, I pass the newly dead, two white headstones in the grave yards of the darkening. Obesity and corvid are killing off weak. Perhaps I will dunk the donuts in deep black coffee, pump a few bites into me and not gulp, but I know that as usual I will gulp.