I just said something to my friend a few months ago about being frustrated with the lack of poetry about suburbia. I seem to read a lot about the lives of those who are more priveleged, who ruminate on the habits of their dogs, and who write about grand travels, etc. but nary a child, diaper, old car, or noisy neighbor feature in any of their poems. It's unhinging after a while when I wonder if I live in a totally different world than "great writers." That's the main reason I enjoyed this volume of poetry so much. Larsen writes about his daughter's hamster, his funny aunt watching the nightly news while her husband holds the antennae, grocery shopping, and sharing power with their Mexican neighbors. Sure, John Keats, Anna Pavlova, and Descartes make their way in there, but they stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the absolute ordinary, and I find that refreshing and real.