You, my tempest in a teapot:

Whirling hurricane of inconvenience.

Rest within your porcelain walls,

And cease our tireless dance.

Three-Cheese Ziti Marinara:

Frozen, diet meal, packaged in plastic.

You are really made with cheese,

Though one would never know.

The dove that nests above the door:

She’s gone now, twigs etching runes on the ground.

It’s all heaped upon the stoop,

And it is really gross.