Crabapple Lane

Happiness is for saps.
You see them paired in matching
polos and shorts,
their fat pink squealing children
on glossy green lawns.

Science we find is wrong.
The universe does not rush into
their vacuous block
to fill the gaping void yawning
in formless boredom.

There is this skulking skunk.
He squats inside my chest
sullen, hungry.
I want to yank him out, toss him
butt first in their yard.