poem on a shiny silver gum wrapper

gray desolate days the
clock running slower than
swirls of lazy sweet potato water in your plastic stained
bowl your red handled
paintbrush is sodden with
the wetness echoes of
color

somber tinted air with
out perfume sprays
the long eyelashes of ex
haustion our
symptoms

december, month of
dulled attempts at
summer's cheer, Xmas
Xmas is almost here, but
our cars are dusty with
winter.