I drink it black

Painting everything in obligation
so the contentment chips away.
My house is not a rotting box,
the filth, I eat with toast.
My neighbors laud my shrubs,
my bushes and my gardens.
They want to stay for tea
but all I have in cups is dirt.
Still, I gorge my daybook
to keep the closets’ closed
with their ghosts, dead,
gleeful, knowledgeable
of the envy they invoke.

SS

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