The off-putting omnipresence of the wife, the kids we're here
To watch, the soul-effacing blandness, colorlessness,
Of this "upscale" house, which looks so like the countless
Others marring what was open range, the parks downtown
Which carry warnings that no one should sit in them, rules
Which go unenforced, except to keep the homeless moving;
Rich, young hipsters, corporate buildings, bland, but on
A grander scale than those I find myself among: all
Of these oppress my spirit. They're why I don't write.