Ah

it smells of formaldehyde.
the floors are stuck with sugar and urine,
tracked in bootprints out back by the pallets,
and the plasma-woven high-definition screens
scream Las Vegas at the ruralites.

and it smells like a wet parking lot
with rusted shopping carts.
clouds soak us in their seaboard cover
against the backdrop of a single mountain,
newly devoid of snow.

the bums wander and talk to themselves
on glistening streets
while the Hummers brush past
with their glossy neo-modern colors,
and the whole scene is backlit by
a bright red neon bullseye.

ah.

must we always live in heaven.