Second time reading this marvel of a book. Beneath the poems that make up this calm, breathtaking collection is seething boredom and frustration. The persona here sits, ruminates; this image forms an entire still life that we can peer into as it gets juxtaposed with images and personified elements of nature. As Mabi David writes in her most popular poem to date: “Nothing is happening.” The persona is catastrophically stuck, so as to pass time she drops these revelations that are so searing they leave a hot mark. Here enters the collection’s title. How else can we describe the persona if not with a one-syllable six-letter word that’s synonymous to bad mood?