The sun rises thick:
egg yolk spilt on brick.
The sky a blackened toast
so crisp
the buttery light won’t stick.
Just stay home, the air is sick.
It can’t get well enough to offer nourishment.
Makes us choke, snot-nosed repentance.
Beggars on our knees below unfiltered air vents.
Burning eyes and itchy skin,
but there’s no wind to forgive us;
no clear bronchi left.
We are nature’s servants.
© 2026 | K.F. Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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