The morning off, should walk
to the market and buy plums

for a tart.  But it’s started
to drizzle, and are they even

in season?  This place is
nothing compared to where

I’ve just been; I’m in no mood
to tease out the beauty

of this pink rhododendron.
It’s gaudy, domesticated,

and the roses have blight.
This morning has no draw,

feeling uneasy as breakfast
after harsh words were spoken.

Even the sun is a little off —
sickly, wan– unsure if

it will clear up or pour. And,
I haven’t heard a single bird

call out over the yards
of lawns and landscaping

bark. How does a place
so open and flat feel

nothing but confining?