In 1854, conditions met
low expectations. City health was poor.
The gutters teemed with filth and rife was debt
in 1854.

Most lives were hard, with vermin having more
than populations starved and stunted, fret
with grief and squalor, mangled, tangled, sore.

My recourse now is trying to forget
the present, future dashed, the end in store.
That’s why I’m reading all these novels set
in 1854.

(Roundel)