Merry times

An observation of the holidays

Sickly smells from a kitchen
cold and dead for years,
The kitchen is lost and muted in a time
when stove fires burn and ovens
warm roasted hens and pumpkin pies.

Ripped boxes filled with foam chips
and rat turds lie crowded together,
in a space once reserved for pine needles
and red tinsel.

Merry times died with innocence.
Tis the season for being buried.