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.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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