I feel myself descending into hell
By several means at once.  I'm old.
The solitude I knew, the tree farm
And the deep ravine, the next-door
Pasture, all have gone, replaced
By parvenus and tasteless houses.
My son's baby cries,  She's spoiled,
Buzzing awfully, like a drone, when
She's not held by Momma.  I can't
Write when there's such noise, and I
Can't even fake some half-assed
Arhat's piece of peace of mind.
I mutter as I search for solace,
Something no one in these dreary
Suburbs can expect to find.
The escalators draw me downward.
Hell is half a floor away, but, in my
Favor, I've an out, a double shot
Of Islay scotch, a taste of peat,
A surer shortcut to the arhat's
Claim of calm.  Drain the glass,
I will, and, subsequently, sidestep
Hell for sleep.