There’s something
no one ever talks about when
they’re in suburbia.
It’s supposed to be a
flawless middle class union, half
metro, half marsh,
but steel edges
of silver silos and skyscrapers
teeter on tearing
the fragile fabric
of the starless almost-city sky.
You hear it most
nights when the
street racers wrench through
pitch highways
and the crickets
punch the identical houses’
plywood shutters.
You hear it when
there’s yelling next door, one
half matrimony,
one half the
inescapably loud swarm
of change.
James Bowie High School
11